


The Vicar's Penance

by Crystalrose



Category: Poldark (TV 2015)
Genre: 18th Century, Abusive Relationships, Aftermath of Torture, Anal, BDSM, Caning, Corporal Punishment, F/M, M/M, Non-Consensual Spanking, Pegging, Psychological Torture, Rape, Stranded, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:07:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 44
Words: 100,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22227631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crystalrose/pseuds/Crystalrose
Summary: The Reverend Osborne Whitworth undergoes prolonged suffering as punishment for his wickedness and the experience not only alters him physically, but in other ways as well.  Will he learn anything from his ordeal?Dark and graphic but well-researched--you won't find any anachronistic dialogue or inventions/concepts here!Story is complete!
Relationships: Drake Carne/Morwenna Chynoweth, Morwenna Chynoweth/Osborne Whitworth, Rowella Chynoweth/Osborne Whitworth
Comments: 25
Kudos: 34





	1. The Reckoning

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Poldark characters, though I do put some of them through the wringer in this fic! The characters I listed above will all be important parts of this story but some of them won't come in for several chapters. I plan on having this story be many chapters long and I appreciate any and all feedback!

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It was a dark and unusually quiet night at the vicarage. Morwenna Whitworth had taken their child to her mother’s home in Bodmin two days before, and Osborne Whitworth’s daughters with his deceased first wife were staying with his mother Lady Whitworth and their newest governess for the next couple of days until Morwenna’s return.

The Reverend Osborne Whitworth was wholly and completely alone in his home at St. Sawle, alone to ponder his life until this point.

He’d now been married to Morwenna, his second wife, for almost four years. Within that time, they had conceived a single child, a son, John Conan. For the first year of their marriage, their love life had been reasonably satisfactory to him. Yes, he’d had to force himself on her, but his rights as her husband had to be taken. He hated her for refusing him what he believed was his. 

Her pregnancy with John Conan eventually proved difficult, and Dr. Enys had to be called in to figure out why she was experiencing various complications. It was the beginning of the end of his sexual satisfaction when the doctor entered the picture. He insisted upon abstinence so as not to crush the baby under his sizable body. And since that time, his sexual satisfaction with his wife had continued to plummet headlong into the abyss.

Osborne paced back and forth in front of the fireplace in his expansive bedroom, considering his next move. For almost two years now Morwenna had been outright refusing her conjugal duties to him. She was breaking that most solemn and sacred vow she had made before him, before God. She had threatened the life of their son if he should so much as touch her. In light of this, he had acquiesced with her demands, though actively seeking to have her removed from his presence forever, to be committed to an institution for the rest of her life for her continual and unrelenting obstinacy. 

Of course the sympathetic Dr. Enys would not write the note that would put her away, and so he had decided to take back—with force—what she had been denying him for so long.

Now that a governess was present to care for John Conan, in effect removing his precious son from his wife’s potentially suffocating clutches, he had mustered up enough nerve to enter her bedroom each day of this past month, for her to resume her wifely responsibility to him.

Yes, she had fought him—cursed him and shouted out in protest—that is, until he hoisted his girthy body upon hers, promptly cutting off her objections and lung capacity as he availed himself. 

Perhaps she would be pregnant again soon. Perhaps this time she would die. Only God could decide that. He had been praying for guidance.

This was no way to live. He wanted a wife who was willing, someone who would happily perform her services to him. He was a man of God, an important well-born man, and he deserved as much. 

Morwenna’s sister Rowella was a gift from God, but she had the devil in her. A girl of fifteen, she had moved into their home to help with the children. Instead, she had helped him again achieve sexual satisfaction, bewitching him with a look and a flash of her perfect feet. Talk of the Iliad and other tedious literature had set the stage for the best sexual congress of his life. It had been the first time in his life that a woman had outright enjoyed engaging in intercourse with him, an ego-booster in and of itself, but she was also skilled in womanly wiles. Even so, his happiness, his satisfaction, had not lasted for very long. Rowella had extorted money from him claiming a false pregnancy, threatening to turn him in to the bishop and then using his hard-earned funds to wed a greedy ginger librarian, a sour-faced bore with stupid thick glasses that rested on the perch of his unpleasant nose. 

He had hated Rowella for what she had done, but being a vicar, forgiveness was expected. And what a gift had he received for forgiving her her trespasses! The gift of her body was again his, in exchange for a reasonable sum and an hours’ travel on horseback. She was little more than his prostitute now, to use as was needed, but it was now essential for him to exercise extreme caution when visiting her in her home along the main street of the close-knit village of Truro. If someone saw him here, if someone heard him crying out as he shuddered with the release that only Rowella could induce, he would lose his job and his home, at the very least. And not only that, but he knew very well that Rowella had evil inside her and was merely using him to improve her own lifestyle. He knew that but the sex was worth it. It was a highly inconvenient way for him to receive what his wife was supposed to provide him. And not only that, but his funds were diminishing with every visit with the girl. He frowned deeply. This was no way for a man of God to live.

He removed his shoes and stockings and sat upon his bed in his long nightshirt and dressing-gown. It was warm enough in his bedroom at this point to sleep without the outer garment, and so he removed it and placed it on a nearby chair.

Why had his wife made the hasty excuse to leave? He attempted to recall. Shortly after he’d returned home this past Thursday, a visit with Rowella quenching his lust for the time being, Morwenna had informed him that her mother had fallen ill and that she’d need to attend her. She would take John Conan with her and he would not stop her, she’d said, her dark eyes full of malice. With that, she had left with unusual haste, having seemingly already packed in his absence. 

He had not received any letters from her these past two days, let alone a note informing him of any change in her mother’s condition. Perhaps she would be gone for an extended period of time. He felt his breaths quicken and his heart pounding at this newfound hope. What would be his excuse for bringing Rowella here instead?

His body quivering with an unexpected bout of longing, he fell to his knees by the bed. By the light of the moon, he lifted his arms to the sky and prayed for a way to receive what he truly deserved.

His prayers would soon be answered, but what he truly deserved was certainly not what he would have expected.

\-------------------------------------------  
After he’d been sleeping for a time, he heard a creak of the hallway door. It had terribly noisy hinges, never having been oiled and him not being capable of doing so. Tonight was a breezy night and so as soon as he stirred, he settled, assuming the noise had simply been a draft blowing through the house.

It was not.

Within moments, Osborne’s door opened with a thud, the heavy wood thumping against the wall as three shadowy figures entered his room. The fireplace had by now dimmed to red embers, and no candles were lit. The moon outside his window was currently enveloped in heavy clouds, rendering the world dark as pitch.

“Who is it?” he called out into the darkness, his voice trembling with fear. Thieves would not have entered his bedroom. There was plenty to steal downstairs in the library, the sitting room, the dining room. They could have had their pick of the house with no one there to see them, to stop them.

“Who’s there?” he said again, having not gotten a reply. The shadowy figures took their places around the bed. The outline of their clothes implied poverty—they were not the sleek, well-tailored clothes of noblemen. Each of the men seemed to be carrying something in his hand. Ossie gulped at this intrusion, at the unknown threat before him. Chills ran up and down his spine. The three men halted in place simultaneously in an almost practiced manner. One man stood at the foot of the bed, his bulk obscuring the dim red light of the fireplace. The other two men stood off to either side of the bed.

After several more moments of terrifying silence, there was a reply. 

“Your conscience,” the man at the foot of the bed responded, his voice gruff and low. 

“Excuse me?” Ossie said, now more affronted than frightened, pulling himself to a seated position in the bed. He rested his forearms on the mattress while attempting to discern anything about these three men, remaining seated with his legs straight out in front of him but under the covers. 

“You’re doin’ wrong, and yet you keep doin’ it,” the man said. The accent certainly suggested a lowly person. Now Ossie was feeling arrogant. He was far higher born than this trio, and yet they were telling him what he was doing wrong!? Of all the impertinence!

“And what might that be?” Ossie snapped back, his anger rising. His breathing had quickened and eyes were finally adjusting to the dim light in the room. All three men had neglected to hide their faces but their faces were so far unremarkable to him. They each had beards and long, unkempt hair, and each held an implement in his hand. One man who stood further back was taller than his two associates. He squinted in an attempt to figure out what each implement was.

“As a vicar, ye ought t’ know what’s right an’ what’s wrong.”

“And you would be correct in saying so.”

“Tell me, Vicar, is rape wrong?”

Ossie could feel his vision shaking, his heart thudding in his chest. 

“Do you not know,” Whitworth sneered. “Is that why you broke into my home, to ask me that?”

“Ye didn’ answer my question. Is rape wrong?”

“I hadn’t assumed you were so low-born as to not know the answer to that question,” was the retort.

“Seems tis you who don’ know the answer to it,” the man said.

“Of course it’s wrong!” Ossie interjected, rolling his eyes. “If you want to learn more about God’s law, I invite you to attend my sermon on Sunday, not my home at this hour!”

The man to his left shifted his hand a bit, revealing his implement to be a relatively flexible long braided device resembling a horse whip.

“We’re not here t’ learn, we’re here to make you learn,” the man at the foot of the bed said.

Ossie gulped, his eyebrows raising at the prospect of that happening here tonight, when he was all alone. Surely Morwenna had planned this. This was revenge for his having called doctors to their home to assess her mental fitness, revenge for his return to his forcing her to submit to him.

“For what?” Ossie said, the pitch of his voice higher than usual. “Rape? I’ve done no such thing,” he said shrilly, following it with a scoff, his body involuntarily quivering.

“D’ye even know what rape is?” was the reply. “Please, define it for us low-born folk.”

“I-I don’t think this is an appropriate subj—”

Suddenly the whip cracked, and he was now made acutely aware of its presence. He sat bolt upright in bed, his hands now folded in his lap.

“Rape is—it’s—” Whitworth began, haltingly, completely rattled, stammering like a schoolboy. “It’s… forcing someone to perform… sexually, under duress.”

“Sounds like an accurate definition. So, Vicar, I must ask—have thee raped?”

“Never,” Ossie blurted instantly, his eyes blinking more rapidly than usual. He could see where this was going, but he was not going to acquiesce to their whims, to defer to their demands.

“Mebbe ye need a reminder of what rape is,” the man said.


	2. A Lesson Learned?

“What? No! Please don’t do this!” Ossie bleated, watching the whip-wielding man approach. “Stop! I am an unarmed man, in my own bed! I have not done anything to warrant this!”

“Turn him over.”

Ossie blanched, felt his limbs engage as a wave of terror surged through him, and he fought the two pairs of arms that came at him, the coarse hands that dug their fingers into his fleshy upper arms and shoulders and then coordinated to shove him mightily to one side so that his rather hefty body might be flopped over. The bedclothes had since been flung to the floor in the tumult. He flailed and kicked and yelled at the top of his lungs, knowing that no one would hear him. The hammer clicked.

A rifle. The center man had lifted up his implement, a gun, and was aiming it somewhere down in front of him. He froze in place, gawking at the weapon. Never had anyone aimed a firearm at him and he was horrified at its simplicity, at the threat the round black hole at the end promised him.

“How can I learn a lesson if I am dead?” he blurted, not taking his eyes off of the firearm.

“If I’m to shoot you, it’ll be in your dick,” the center man growled, his voice low and menacing behind the barrel of the rifle. “Turn him over, boys. Without a fight.”

This time, Ossie complied without a protest, trembling and fighting back tears that threatened to spill from the corners of his eyes as he turned over to lie prone on the bed. The men who had attempted to turn him over had relinquished their hold on his wrists, and he placed his hands on the mattress on either side of his head. One of the men ripped the pillow out from under his chin and his jowly chin struck the mattress.

“Please, don’t do this,” Ossie cried, his voice breaking as he spoke. “Please, I beg you.”

“Does that phrase not seem familiar to you, Vicar?” the center man spat. Ossie blinked dumbly.

“What phrase?”

“What ye just said.”

A wave of arrogance reared its head at this most inopportune time.

“How would you know if it was familiar to me or not?” Ossie suddenly hissed, surprised by the venom in his own voice. “You have been misinformed."

“Ah, just what I thought ye’d say. Get ‘im ready.”

A cold draft stung his lower back and buttocks as one of the men lifted his nightshirt up under his armpits. He shivered, both from the cold and from fear.

The center man crawled onto his legs, bony knees stabbing him in his rather generous calves as they moved across his body. His initial yowl of pain turned to a shudder that shook his body, as the man’s trousers were opened.

Ossie felt the mans’ rough hands dig into the soft flesh lying over his hip bones and then yank backwards with surprising strength, which pulled his backside skyward, his legs now folded underneath him. It was a degrading position to be in but what followed made him instantly forget his prostrate stance.

The assault was more painful than he could have ever expected. The friction alone of the two incompatible parts made him scream into the mattress, made him smash his nose and mouth as hard into the featherbed as was possible as he dug his fingers into the softness of it. The rape continued relentlessly, Ossie’s head banging rhythmically and helplessly into the headboard, his muffled screams punctuated by the skull-to-wood rapping as his rotund body was thrust forward and then back again. 

“You’re softer than a woman,” his rapist commented. “Nice fat arse too.”

With that, he slapped the vicar’s backside.

Ossie’s head shot up at the unexpectedness of it, his entire body trembling uncontrollably. He felt sick to his stomach, having been reduced to the role of a woman with this lecherous man at his back, one far too familiar with this sort of activity.

“Sodomy is a sin before God!” he heard himself exclaim, but just as soon regretted it. There was nothing he could say that would stop this assault early, and certainly not religious platitudes.

“An’ you are a rapist before God!” was the reply. 

The thrusts were getting closer together now. Soon this particular assault would be ending. He squeezed his eyes shut, feeling hot tears running down his cheeks as he gritted his teeth.

It was over, blessedly over after what felt like a lifetime to him. He could feel blood trickling from his body and knew he’d been injured internally. 

If he survived this—if he were allowed to live—would this be something he could admit publicly to some authority figure? He did not recognize the men, and in this dim of light, could only see plain, common features like beards and unkempt clothing. That description could fit most of the men of Cornwall—most of the men in England, in fact.

He didn’t know what to say, so he remained silent. He did, however, begin to sniffle, a sound which embarrassed him. At this point, the man who’d assaulted him climbed off of him and he allowed his lower body to sink back down until it was essentially flattened onto the mattress.

“So, lemme ask thee again, Vicar, have thee raped?”

“Homosexuality is an abomination,” he murmured into the mattress without turning over. “Sodomy as well. The devil is dancing tonight.”

Silence met him. Gooseflesh appeared on his skin. This was not over.

“I didn’t think ye wanted more, but alas, I was wrong. Mebbe we need to try another angle—one ye’d be more familiar with.”

“What? No!” Ossie blurted. He threw his shoulder back, quickly flipping himself over onto his back before they could mount him again. However, now his nether regions were exposed to the men, to the whip and the gun. His face reddened reflexively and he covered himself with his hands.

“Good boy,” the center man said. “Just what I’d be hoping ‘ee’d do.”

Now the man to his right began to climb onto the bed. Ossie’s head turned sharply to look at the man, and he began to pull himself up onto his forearms again. Thankfully the taller man stayed back, if height was any indication of size. 

“Don’ you move,” the man who’d just assaulted him hissed, taking the gun from his second soon to be rapist and holding it steadily on him as he shrank back into the mattress. “D’ye really want your family finding you like this, castrated with a bullet?”

Ossie took a quick intake of breath, his mind racing as he watched the man approach him, the stench of sweat and dirt overtaking his senses as he approached. In this supine position, he could see everything the man did, could look at him and smell his breath and feel his lust. It was utterly terrifying.

His next rapist swung his leg over Ossie’s waist and then scooted his body back a foot or two. It was unnerving how quickly his own legs were rendered useless under the man’s rump. Missionary was the position he always used with Morwenna, but it had been difficult for him to pin her down quickly before she could leap back out of bed and beg him not to continue. Sometimes he was sloppy, especially in those earlier days of their marriage, using his size alone to crush her on the mattress while he awkwardly jammed his hand in between their bodies to free himself and enter her. Sometimes he’d slap her to quiet her when she’d instinctively resisted. She’d whimper and squirm and give up at that point, but she still showed her displeasure. 

Even as he attempted to connect with his wife while working himself to a climax, she would stare far away, her eyes set on something unknown in the distance, mouth locked in a grimace all the while. She hated him, that much was true. Even so, her hatred fed his lust. He knew that she was feeling very strongly and that was all he needed to finish.

Now he found himself doing the same things that Morwenna did, avoiding his assaulter’s gaze. Rather than stare off into space, however, he kept his eyes tightly shut all the while as the assault began from this familiar but yet unfamiliar angle. He’d always been the one on top and it disgusted him to have been rendered the recipient of this attack.

“Open your eyes!” rang in his ears and he instantly complied, doing so to find his rapist’s face looming above his, breath stinking of rum and yeasty bread, teeth mangled and rotten, and a beard so scruffy and unkempt that he doubted it had ever been trimmed. The eyes that now looked at him were dark and full of hatred and lust and it terrified him. Reflexively, his eyes drifted off to the side just as Morwenna’s did, his face noticeably shaking with fear all the while, cold sweat running down his temples and causing his auburn hair to curl even more than usual. The body on his was heavy and reeked and it felt like more of an assault than the first rape because it was so very personal, face to face, the entirety of their chests and abdomens uniting, body parts rubbing together from chest to calves.

As the second assault sped up to a fever pitch, his rapist laid his body fully on the vicar’s and grabbed a wrist with each hand, pinning them onto the bed. Now the bearded, ugly face above him was only inches from his own and Ossie again shut his eyes at this new visual assault. He didn’t care if he was yelled at again; he would not open his eyes again to have that man rape his very soul.

\-----------------------------------------

Once the second assault had ended, the man climbed off of him and left him lying spread-eagled on his mattress. He opened his eyes and glanced around in the near pitch blackness to find the three men standing around his bed again. Ossie didn’t move immediately, because he was afraid what would happen if he did.

“Look at you, ye porker,” the center man said, having lowered his rifle apparently sometime during the assault. “So fat and sweaty, like a sow ready for the butcher. A wonder you can even perform with such a piss-poor figure.”

He didn’t know what to say. The only person to ever comment negatively on his figure was Dr. Enys, that bastard physician who had planted the seed in Morwenna, making her believe she was right to refuse his advances. The physician who had declared her mentally fit and had saved her life during childbirth, effectively ruining his chances for a new life with a new, more willing bride.

Rather than reply, Ossie slowly lifted his hands off of the mattress on either side of his head and very gradually brought them towards his exposed nether regions. His vision was clouded up from the tears that threatened to spill.

“Have ‘ee anything to say for yerself?” the man with the gun added. 

“Wh-what do you want from me?” Ossie blubbered. 

“What a parishioner must do to get right with God. Confess what ye done, and then not do it again.”

“So… you rapists… want me to admit that I am a rapist,” Ossie said haltingly, eyes wide and fearful, breaths fast and quivering as he lay vulnerable and completely naked before three men with weapons and the upper hand. “I gather I know where you are going with this, but it is the law of the land—a man cannot rape his own wife.”

“But as ye said mere minutes ago, what did ‘ee say rape was? Forcing someone to perform sexually under duress. No mention of exemptions.”

“It is well-known in the law books and in the church.” 

“Let me understand this correctly then; if I put a band on your finger and we sign a paper, what I’m doing to ‘ee is not a rape.”

“But you forget yourself,” Ossie countered, glancing around him for something with which to cover himself. When he could find nothing in reach, he was again made aware of his complete nudity and helpless appearance, and attempted to sit up in bed to counter it.

“Homosexuality is an abomination. It is illegal both in the Church and under Law. So that is not an appropriate example.”

“But a large, heavy man restraining the woman he promised to love, honor and obey, an’ forcing himself into another hole is not. Bah, if that be God’s law, I want nothin’ to do with ‘im.”

Osborne fell silent, unable to admit that this peasant had made a good point.

“So if I admit to being a rapist, as you say, then you’ll stop?”

“If it seem sincere, perhaps.”

The vicar licked his lips, feeling obstinate. 

“I am not to verify the sincerity of my parishioners at the confessional booth,” Ossie replied haughtily. “Their confession is enough in the eyes of God.”

“Are we the eyes of God, now?” laughed the center man, looking to his two helpers. “Tis an honor I ne’er thought I’d receive.”

Ossie did not reply.

“Have thee anything to confess, Vicar?” 

Ossie blanched, his mouth like cotton, lower jaw quivering. If he did not tell them what they wanted to hear, he’d be assaulted yet again—of that he was certain.

He thought of how only moments ago, he’d lain on his back pinned helplessly under his rapist, legs spread and inner thighs cramping all the while, using all his mental fortitude to avert his eyes, to go to a distant place in his mind, just as his wife had done each and every time he took his conjugal rights. Had his wife felt this revulsion, this horror, every time he untied his dressing-gown, the five times a week that he would demand this of her? She had tolerated this for an entire year. And yet, he knew that it was impossible for a man to commit rape upon his own wife—wasn’t it? He’d always felt so sure of himself, of his righteousness, each time he’d look down to see the misery in Morwenna’s dark eyes. The definition of marriage, the letter from St. Paul, for God’s sake!, indicated that a woman had to submit to her husband, or else she was in the wrong. These peasants were not educated in the Church, in the law of God. Yet he was.

So how could he already be doubting his lifelong beliefs on the account of three homosexual rapist peasants?

“I think I’ll have a go on ‘im this time,” the tall man said to his cohorts. He held out his weapon to the man on his right. “Here, hold the gun on ‘im.”

The vicar blanched. This was never going to end.

“I confess!” Ossie exclaimed, his voice breaking.

The tall man came to a halt, his disappointment apparent.

“You confess what?”

“I confess that I have… raped.”

He set his jaw in a grimace as he awaited the next steps. Would they harm him further? Would Morwenna step out from behind the door and demand his arrest, or execution?

“Raped whom?” the center man asked.

He swallowed hard. 

“My wife,” he replied in a breathy voice, eyes focused in the distance, his voice sounding foreign to him. This confession, though elicited under duress, struck a cold realization into his heart. He’d never said anything like this aloud. In fact, his self-reflections always focused on his righteousness, his humility, all of the positive qualities he saw in himself. In confessing aloud that he’d raped Morwenna, it further substantiated it. The feelings that the second assault elicited, the way he’d averted his eyes and squirmed in terror, were far too similar to Morwenna’s responses to his own assaults than he would ever care to admit.

“You’re just saying that so I can’t have a go at ye,” the tall man remarked irritably.

“That’s not true. Your point was well taken. In fact, I’m ashamed that I had to learn it the hard way.”

“Learn what? Please, enlighten we on this newfound knowledge.”

Ossie began to stammer, more vulnerable than he had ever been in his life, his plump nude body shivering in the cold of his drafty bedroom. 

“I—I now realize that… forcing anyone against their will constitutes rape. And rape is a sin in the eyes of God and Man. I have therefore sinned…” he bowed his head, “—countless times, and I must therefore, beg God for His forgiveness.”

“An’ what of yer wife?”

He suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. The interjection by the peasant man had stifled his sermonizing, and he had temporarily fallen silent to recollect his thoughts.

“Right, and Morwenna. Of course.”

“Will ye do it again?”

“No. Never,” Ossie immediately replied. He looked straight up at the ceiling. “May God strike me dead if I do.”

“Ye won’t have to wait around for God to do it if it do happen again,” the center man said. “Make right with your life and ye won’t see us again.”

With that, the man made a subtle head gesture and turned to leave, promptly followed out of the bedroom door by the two rapists, and Ossie was again alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave me some feedback! I'd be much obliged!


	3. A Confrontation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter backs away from the abject torture of the last two! So please, give it a chance, if you're intrigued as to what happens next!

Osborne Whitworth sat up in bed to see the sizable puddle of blood that had oozed from his body after these assaults. He made a face of disgust and flung his legs over the side of the bed, unsteadily making his way to a standing position, his nightshirt cascading back down to cover his body to mid-thigh level. 

He didn’t know what to say now. He felt strong emotions returning to him, tears of frustration and also relief that he’d survived and that his assailants had left. Tears of betrayal.

His wife was behind this, that much was certain. That was why she had left for her mother’s house two days before. She couldn’t be home for this, for if she’d escaped without injury and he was left in this state, many difficult questions would be asked.

He wanted nothing more at the moment than to wash the stench and blood and sweat off of his body, the fluids that were his and the fluids that weren’t his that had seemingly soaked into his very being. He wouldn’t be informing anyone of this most embarrassing, personal assault on his person. Being a man, he was supposed to be immune to this type of crime. A wave of shame passed over him just then, causing him to sob aloud in the dark quietness of his room, shame not for what he’d done, but for what had been done to him.

\-----------------------------------------------------------

Osborne Whitworth awoke before dawn after failing to sleep the entire night. His mind moved between thoughts of revenge, betrayal, and terror. 

Grimacing with the pain of the assault, he grunted as he hung the wooden sign over the door at St. Sawle’s that services that day had been cancelled. Today would prove to be a difficult day. He would be confronting Morwenna, but in order to do so, he had to ride twenty-five miles to her family estate on horseback, a feat difficult enough for him to do without unknown internal damage. And yet, it had to be done.

He packed up a night bag, for his horse would never be able to carry his bulk fifty miles in a day. It was an extremely inconvenient and aggravating journey but he had to speak with his wife.

He guided the mare along the carriage path to Bodmin, cursing under his breath all the while regarding the shape of the saddle between his already aching thighs. The road from Sawle to Bodmin was remote, consisting of sparsely populated villages dotted between vast, empty moors that overlooked the sea, and forests so dense they blocked all moonlight. He’d appreciated the isolation of his vicarage from society, but now it terrified him. No one had heard him scream last night and no one would hear him if the men were to return. However, he knew that would not dare return with Morwenna present. He had to bring her back, if only for his own safety.

He dismounted his horse upon his arrival at the Chynoweth estate. Although he’d taken his time traveling here, taking the occasional break to partake of food or simply to allow his body some recovery from the difficult ride, once he’d gotten off of the horse, a diffuse, throbbing pain shot through his body and down the inside of his legs, culminating as a double charley horse.

Osborne Whitworth fell to his knees on the dusty cobblestone in front of the house, sucking the air back through his teeth at the new surge of pain this elicited while frantically rubbing his inner thighs to alleviate the intense tightness. He was not accustomed to riding horseback for such a long time and dearly wished he had taken a coach instead, but that would have taken far too long and he would not have been able to leave before dawn.

Within several minutes he had composed himself well enough to approach the door, having dusted off the knees of his breeches and learning again how to walk normally.

“Mrs. Chynoweth,” he called out in a pleasant singsong as he rapped at the door of their home. “Hello, is anyone there. Morwenna?”

Suddenly the door was opened, but only wide enough to accommodate the face of Morwenna’s sister, Garlanda, the stout, boyish sibling of the family he’d only met once or twice before. 

“Ah, Reverend Whitworth,” she replied. “What brings you all this way?”

“I have not received any correspondence from my wife since she left for your estate,” he began, “and I was worried about her.”

“Right,” Garlanda said, unconvinced. “She is fine and well.”

“And my son?” Now he was glaring at the girl, his blue eyes cold and accusatory. 

“He is doing well,” was the curt reply. “But as you know, Mother is ill and although you have made quite the journey, it would be best if—”

“I wish to speak with my wife,” Ossie snarled, his teeth bared. “I have not traveled for six hours to be turned away at the door.”

“I’m afraid mother’s condition has taken a turn for the worse, and Morwenna has been—”

“I don’t care. I am her _husband_ and I every right to speak with her,” he hissed, shoving the door into her shoulder. She attempted to push back, but was quickly defeated by his sheer size. The door slammed into the adjacent wall, echoing through the empty space that lie within.

The foyer was devoid of anyone but Garlanda. It was sparsely furnished, with the kitchen off to the right and the sitting room off to the left. A staircase ascending directly across from the doorway was empty.

“Where is my wife,” he growled, having bared his teeth. It was the most dangerous look this foppishly dressed obese man had yet achieved. 

“Upstairs,” Garlanda replied. “With Mother. Her condition may be contagious, so it is better that you not—”

“Am I to understand, then, that my wife brought my son to the home of a person with a contagious disease?” His nostrils flared as his anger grew. He began pacing around the room loudly, his heels clicking on the bare wooden boards, breaths steady but loud. “Where is John Conan?”

“In the sitting room, over here,” Garlanda indicated, gesturing to the dark-haired boy quietly sitting on a stool in the adjacent room, playing with a small doll.

“I am taking him home with me,” Ossie snarled. “Come, boy.”

John Conan looked over at his father and began to cry, his dark brown eyes spilling over with tears. His son—his heir—was looking more and more like Morwenna every day, a thought which irritated him to no end.

“Mama! Mama!” the boy wailed at the top of his lungs, to the dismay and annoyance of the vicar. Promptly Ossie snatched him by the arm and began to drag him towards the door.

“No,” came a firm voice from the top of the stairs. It was Morwenna.

Ossie froze in place, his eyes the only part of his body that moved. His eyes rose to glare at her, his face suddenly seething with hatred and contempt for this woman. If he could have killed her without any consequence, her corpse would already have skeletonized by now.

She stood resolute, looking taller and more formidable than she ever had at their home. Her hair hung darkly around her pale face, eyes boring into his own without any hesitation. She looked much like a ghost, come to haunt him from his past.

“He is _my_ son!” Ossie boomed, his voice loud and harsh, his jaw set and shoulders squared. Those men may have demasculinized him last night, but he was going to get it back. In spite of how she appeared right now, his frail little wife stood no chance against him and never had. “You are _my wife_ and he is _my son_ and I demand you both return home!”

“No.”

“What?” he shot, his vision shaking with anger. He was losing control of himself in front of her sister, his son, and perhaps other unseen members of the household, but his anger was too far gone to stop. “How dare you defy me time and time again, Wife,” he snarled. “To break your vows! To refuse me what is mine! You are coming home, whether you like it or not!”

“I am direly needed here, Osborne.”

“You are needed at _home_!” he bellowed, face reddening and spittle flying from his mouth. “My son is needed at _home_! I did not travel all this way to be _refused_!”

Morwenna took several steps down the stairs, her voice falling to a hiss.

“Is my sister not enough to satiate you anymore? Or has your purse become too light to continue to call upon her services?”

His jaw dropped and eyebrows raised. So she knew everything. For a moment he was rendered speechless. Before he could allow shame to enter his psyche, he recalled the activities of previous night. 

“I see you’ve assumed the moral high ground,” he spat, looking thoroughly entertained. “Very amusing, in light of the fact that your mercenaries arrived last night to maim me,” he spat. “You’ll be happy to know they succeeded.” His lower lip quivered as he finished speaking.

She blinked with confusion, her countenance softening.

“What are you talking about? What mercenaries?”

“I am speaking of your three men, sent to destroy me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she countered. 

“Ha,” he spat. “A rather odd coincidence that it should happen two nights after you left our marital home, wouldn’t you say?”

“If this is so, how did they hurt you?” she said, craning her neck from her position on the stairs. “I see nothing wrong with you whatsoever.”

“I am not at liberty to speak of it here,” he said, suddenly regretting having said anything at all about last night in front of her family. “Believe me when I say I have been permanently maimed by your mercenaries.”

“Maybe it is you who should talk to Dr. Enys about mental stability. Three men coming to destroy you in the night, and yet leaving no visible damage? That sounds a bit delusional to me.”

Unbridled rage surged through his body, and he balled his fists. Would he murder her where she stood, throw her down her family’s staircase? He blinked several times in an attempt to regain his composure but his self-control had all but completely dissipated. 

Suddenly a pair of dainty shoes appeared on the stairs above Morwenna, and haltingly descended down the stairs to stand beside her. It was her mother. His blue eyes shot up like daggers to meet his mother-in-law’s steely gaze.

“I want you to leave our house now,” the pale, sickly-looking woman said, leaning heavily against the railing with one elbow, and soon Ossie noticed that she was holding a gun, a long rifle, in her free hand. “Get out.”

“Ah! So you’re well enough to shoot me!” was Ossie’s sarcastic snipe. “But not well enough to leave my family alone at Sawle.”

“Vicar, if what you are saying is true, that mercenaries entered your home, she’ll be safer here,” he replied. “I will not send my daughter and grandson back to an unsafe place. Do you even own a weapon?”

Osborne blinked indignantly, his anger again growing inside him. However, he was not prepared to fight yet another woman. He snapped back, his voice far less confident. 

“I am a man of God and have no need for implements of death. You, _woman_ , have no right telling me what to—”

Morwenna’s mother raised the firearm so that she was holding it at waist level, the barrel pointed in his general direction.

“This is my home and you’ve no power here. Leave now!”

His head turned to his son, still wailing in the sitting room, the doll soaking wet from his tears.

“I’m taking John Conan th—”

The hammer was drawn back, his mother-in-law now aiming the rifle steadily at him. What an uncouth home—a sickly old woman the master of the house, brandishing a firearm like a soldier at the top of the stairs!

“Goodbye,” she growled, her tone resolute, her finger on the trigger. In her supposed sickness, she’d be too weak to stand trial for his murder. Maybe she’d been planning this…

“Right,” Ossie muttered, attempting a sheepish smile. Trembling with the remembrance of his assault the night before, the reverend nearly wet himself, awkwardly backing toward the door and promptly letting himself out.


	4. Return to Sawle

Getting back into the saddle was extremely difficult with the internal soreness. Osborne Whitworth let out a cry of pain as he settled into his position, knowing what had to be done.

If Morwenna and his son were not to return home at this time, he had to get some sort of security force, a group of armed men who would shoot any possible intruders on sight.

He would have to make do with settling in Bodmin. His horse was already exhausted, drenched in sweat though there was a significant chill to the fall air, her mouth wide open and tongue splayed over the bit at having to carry his significant girth for such a journey.

Tonight he would sleeping at an inn in Bodmin, surrounded by people who would hear if something happened to him. Tonight he would be safe, but tomorrow night was not guaranteed. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------

“Why do you suddenly require security?” George Warleggan queried from behind his oversized desk, clearly taken aback by the very direct request from a man who usually did not blurt his desires outright with no justification. “You have been living at St. Sawle now for months and have never had—”

“Last night I was robbed quite viciously,” Osborne replied. “Thankfully my wife and children were staying elsewhere for the evening. My safety and the safety of my family is paramount and I need armed men to guard the house.”

“I had not heard of this,” George said, shaking his head. He was the man all other men reported to about the evil undercurrents in Cornwall, many initiated by himself, but this particular story had not been told to him.

“So, can I expect them to be by this evening?” Ossie said, smiling hopefully at his rich benefactor.

“What is it that was stolen from you?” George replied, still doubting. “Or was your door simply forced open?”

“Something indeed was stolen from me. It was something invaluable, something that I would have never sold for any sum.”

George’s eyebrows went up in surprise. Ossie could easily be bought, so his statement was inconsistent with what he thought he knew about this greedy man.

“And what might that be?” George asked. “Perhaps it can be recovered.”

“Recovery would be impossible,” he sighed. 

“Did you see who did this?”

“Three bearded peasant men with weapons. I’ve nothing remarkable to report about any one of them.”

“Why do you believe they’ll return?”

“Let me remind you that my security at St. Sawle benefits you as well, Sir. As long as I am alive and safe, I can continue to amass the names of Nathanial Pierce’s clientele….”

“Fine. I will send two of my men to your home tonight to stand guard. Perhaps, though, if the item they stole was priceless, they won’t return for anything lesser in value.”

“Perhaps.”

\---------------------------------------

It was only three thirty in the afternoon when he left George Warleggan’s bank. Only a quarter of a mile down the street, in a little cottage at the crossroads, his temptress Rowella was sitting all alone in her threadbare stockings, feet exposed as she awaited her husband’s return from work.

Normally it took him an hour by horseback to visit Truro, but he was already here for the day taking care of urgent business. He had wasted his fifty-mile round trip to Bodmin to fetch Morwenna and John Conan, but he would ensure that he had made the best of his time in Truro.

He tied his horse outside of the Red Lion Inn and proceeded to walk several blocks away along the street to Rowella’s cottage.

He licked his lips and proceeded to whistle merrily as he strode down the cobblestone in his finery. The nature and scope of Mrs. Chynoweth’s illness could be further deduced or perhaps refuted by Rowella, who was also Mrs. Chynoweth’s daughter. But more importantly, he needed a release. His masculinity had been greatly tested with the three men, and had then been directly challenged yesterday by his wife and mother-in-law. He needed to get it back.

\-----------------------------------------

“And how is your dear mother?” His lips were still moist and he licked them as he smiled.

It was a strange statement, having immediately followed a rather enthusiastic toe sucking. Not only that, but for whatever reason, Ossie had specifically avoided using the missionary position with her today. He’d awkwardly attempted to fornicate in a side-lying position, which hadn’t worked out because his girthy hips and stomach didn’t allow the proper alignment of their bodies. No matter—her skill and natural talent in the bedroom smoothed the course and their foray ended satisfactorily enough.

“Very ill, I’m afraid,” Rowella replied automatically, her expression suddenly very serious indeed.

“In what way, may I ask?” he replied, his eyes wide with interest. “Is it infection? Rheumatism?”

“I haven’t been to see her in the past day or so, but when I visited, she was abed. I worry for her health but trust that my sisters will take good care of her.”

“So you know Morwenna is not at St. Sawle,” Ossie commented, suddenly irritated. “Why did you not think to pay your generous brother-in-law a visit?”

“My shoes have worn clear through,” was her cool and collected reply. “I cannot walk but more than one hundred yards without developing blisters on my feet.”

Clearly this was her way of demanding money yet again. He grimaced as he fumbled with his purse, now containing an uncomfortably small sum. 

“You said you just saw your mother only days ago,” he said, his head shooting up from his task at hand. “How did you manage that with shoes in such… poor condition?”

“It was the very trip that wore the hole in my shoes,” she immediately responded, standing up and moving towards her front door. “Would you care to see them?”

The woman—this mere girl—was always two steps ahead of him, and he felt stupid and slow. He glanced at his pocket watch as she fetched the shoes. It was approaching five o’clock. Directing his focus to her feet or something that contained them would spark another fire within him. 

“I should be going,” he said, irritably tossing her some money. “I do not know when Morwenna shall return, in case you should find yourself bored of reading all day. Buy some new shoes and _use_ them.”

\-------------------------------------------------

When Osborne finally began to ride back toward the vicarage, the sun was dropping lower and lower in the sky and the clouds had piled up like red logs above the imminent sunset. He had a six-mile journey ahead of him, one he could perhaps make within an hour if he could manage to push his horse into an occasional trot. 

He could tell by his mare’s heavy breathing and occasional chuffing, that she was already exhausted from the day’s travels from Bodmin to Truro. Though she’d had an hour of respite tied outside the Red Lion Inn while he availed himself, it wasn’t enough. Quickly Ossie found himself doubting that he’d be able to move her along faster than a walk.

The sun set in the sky, blinding him and his horse as they walked due west, now entering the densely wooded part of the path. It was unnerving enough to ride through this part of the journey in the daylight, but at night, it truly made his skin crawl.

He decided to distract himself with thoughts of his new armed guard waiting for him at St. Sawle. He pictured them standing on either side of his front door, each holding a rifle and scanning the surrounding forest for aberrations. 

There was nothing to fear! He had not violated Morwenna for two days now and he had no reason to expect that the three men would return. He _had_ confronted his wife, if only to cajole her into returning to their marital home, which was well within his rights as a husband. In fact, when she’d stubbornly refused to leave, he’d not even attempted to confront her again today before leaving for Truro.

The sex with Rowella today was consensual and his rapists hadn’t seemed to have a problem with the other commandments he had willfully broken.

Yes, everything would be fine. He would sleep safe and warm in his bed tonight, protected by armed men. 

\--------------------------------------------

Now that the sun had dipped below the horizon, darkness was quickly enveloping the landscape. His mare became more high-strung now, her ears pricked up and scanning for danger, the whites of her eyes occasionally visible as she chomped anxiously at the bit.

If he hadn’t been so desirous to leave these woods hurriedly, it would have been easy for him to abandon the nervous animal and continue his journey on foot. Instead, he pressed on, using the heels of his riding boots to spur her on. 

The moon was only a crescent this evening, but it was impossible to see through the dense trees. The horse was returning to St. Sawle through memory alone, for it was pitch black. Not only that, but an eerie fog lingered over the path and between the mangled trees, thickening the air and rendering the darkness to be suffocating.

Ossie heard himself swallowing loudly, audible in spite of the horse’s labored breathing, the clopping of her hooves on the path, and the occasional swish of her tail. He found himself praying under his breath that he would do anything, _anything_ , to get back to Sawle safely.

“Ye tryin’ to kill that animal?” a loud voice suddenly cut through the darkness. Shadowy figures stood on the path in front of him, blocking his way.

Ossie’s horse panicked, rearing up on her hind legs and whinnying with terror. Ossie was not able to hold on. With a yelp, he fell backwards off of the mare and landed painfully on the ground, his foot crushed beneath his body. Agonizing pain flooded his senses from his damaged foot. The pain was so great that he promptly lost consciousness.


	5. Marooned

Osborne Whitworth awoke to the sound of gulls. His eyes fluttered open to be met with blinding sun. Searing pain met him shortly afterwards, radiating primarily from his foot and head. He felt soggy and cold and his mind was muddled and slow.

Ossie squinted as he attempted to discern what was around him. He heard the sea rushing in and the cry of sea birds and realized he was quite close to water, closer than the cliffs of Cornwall afforded. He peered with murky vision at his clothing, muddied and clinging to his girthy body, his coat missing. Both of his feet were bare, the riding boots gone. His right foot was swollen and dark purple with a large angry bruise running along the entire top of his foot. His skin was sticky from seawater and his hair a mangled mess of auburn curls.  
He could now see that he was lying on sand, very close to where the tide was coming in. Where was he?

“Is anyone there?” he managed to choke out. He attempted to bend an elbow, to dig it into the sand in an attempt to sit up, but the ground was too soft. His head throbbed and swam with disjointed thoughts. All he could smell was salt water. His lips, his tongue, his nose must have been saturated in it for hours.

In spite of the warmth of the sun, he felt a chill run through him. How had he ended up here?

Ossie attempted to think of the last thing he remembered. He had been traveling through the forest back to Sawle from Truro, after a relatively unsatisfying visit with Rowella. He could not recall what had happened afterwards.

\----------------------------------------------

Had Morwenna somehow arranged this? Had his horse bucked him into the water? Where in God’s name was he? The sandy beach was at sea-level and the land around it did not in any way resemble the high rocky cliffs of Cornwall. The temperature here was similar to that of Sawle but his new world was devoid of boats, horses, houses, any sign of civilization whatsoever. No scraps of his missing clothing articles could be seen in any direction, just the sea.

Ossie managed to stand up and painfully limp over to the tree line, where he could get respite from the unforgiving sun. Once he’d reached the thick shade, the cold sogginess of his clothing was enhanced. He contemplated removing his waistcoat and shirt, at least, in order to dry them out, but he hesitated. It was possible that civilization was just through the trees—no need to scare people stumbling around muddy and half-dressed like a savage! 

He had been through so much in the course of three days. First his entire family had left Sawle for their own reasons. As if Mrs. Chynoweth required a married daughter to assist her! Not only that, but then coincidentally upon the emptying of his home, he’d been assaulted in his own bed by three strange men. He’d then traveled all the way to Bodmin and back on horseback after an unsuccessful attempt to force his wife and son to return home. He’d paid Rowella for an uncharacteristically awkward encounter, and now he was here.

Did the men that raped him have something to do with this? He could not recall his horseback ride from Truro back to Sawle. Perhaps something had happened after he’d seen Rowella. He could not recall falling from the horse, could not recall being thrown over the saddle and brought to the shoreline in the dark of night, or being loaded into a rowboat and dumped on this uninhabited island.

It was a beautiful cloudless day but all Osborne Whitworth could think of was why he was all alone.

\----------------------------------------------

Thirst. It awoke from him a light slumber and was intense enough to get him onto his feet. But where would he get water? He certainly couldn’t drink seawater. Osborne would have to explore the island, find fresh water. He was wholly out of shape and had damaged his foot in some way. A thought struck him and made the hair on his neck bristle. Would he die here?

“No,” he muttered under his breath. His eyes searched the beach and turned to the woodlands behind him. The vegetation was quite dense and he sighed. Hopefully somewhere in there was a stream of some sort—or better yet, a house!

As he strode along painfully slowly along the rock-strewn ground, Osborne got a better sense of his state of dress. His shirt, waistcoat, and breeches were muddy and wet. One leg of his breeches was torn along a seam from his knee to mid-thigh. His stockings, shoes, and coat were missing. 

Panic crept up in his throat as the sky began to darken. Forest surrounded him on all sides and he hadn’t yet found a source of fresh water. He’d not learned the gritty skills that lesser families imparted on their children—the ability to fish, to hunt, to forage for food, to survive. Not only that, but he couldn’t swim. 

His body wanted to sleep but his ever-increasing thirst made it impossible. As the sun sank below the horizon, he stumbled around in his bare feet in the rocky dirt.

“Augh! Not another one!” he yelled, having stepped on another painful stone. As he attempted to lift his injured sole off of the ground, his damaged other foot collapsed under him and he fell to the ground in a heap. 

There he saw a cave in the distance, hidden under a copse of trees. The alcove seemed to invite him in and was perhaps fifty yards away. Perhaps here he could find shelter for the night. 

By the time he’d reached the cave and curled up inside it, it was fully dark and shutting his eyes made it no darker.

\------------------------------------------------

He awoke to the sound of seals barking and the musty smell of the cave. He blinked several times, rubbing his eyes in an attempt to clear their vision. Were those bottles?

Osborne reached out to touch the bottles. They were bottles, brown glass and probably full of rum or some other alcoholic substance! Civilization existed on this island after all! The bottles didn’t appear to be extremely dusty or dirty and were still positioned in an orderly manner, so it surely hadn’t been long since they’d been placed here. 

He pulled a cork out of the closest bottle and smelled it tentatively. It smelled strong and sharp, most likely rum, he presumed. Perhaps this could quench his thirst. Excessive partaking of alcohol was surprisingly not one of his vices but he’d have to make an exception today.

Osborne guzzled the bottle down, spilling much of it on his already ruined clothes. The rum burned his throat but he didn’t care. Soon he’d finished a bottle and sat with legs splayed out inside the cave, his head spinning and swimming and eyes not quite focusing on their target.  
He wasn’t accustomed to such heavy imbibement of alcohol and it showed. He thought about standing but after blearily getting to one knee, decided against it and plopped back down. Instead of opening another bottle, Ossie glanced around the cave for other provisions. There was a stack of wooden crates to one side, the top crate certainly containing more bottles of alcohol. Perhaps there was some kind of food, some kind of dried meat or hard tack that he could eat. Before beginning, he thought he should pray. Perhaps by some miracle he’d find a stash of edible food in these crates. 

“Dear heavenly father,” he began, his tongue thicker than usual, “thank you for the placement of this cave, that I may survive and find my way back to preaching your Word.”

It was then that he lurched to his feet. The world spun, and he heaved his body against the wall of the cave to steady himself. Soon he reached the crates, but now he wasn’t feeling well. Ossie’s eyes went wide as he realized what he was soon to do. 

He turned away from the crates just as vomitus erupted from his mouth. He’d consumed the strong alcohol far too quickly. His emesis didn’t end until his stomach was again empty. At this point, he hadn’t the energy to stand back up and pull a crate off of the stack. Instead, he curled up and fell asleep, surrounded by the acrid stench of rum and stomach acid.

\---------------------------------------------------------

When next he awoke, his head was throbbing and he was being dragged out of the cave, strong hands under each armpit yanking him out of the alcove.

The words he tried to speak were utterly incomprehensible and his tongue felt broken. He attempted to discern the features of the two men dragging him but couldn’t do so well from his upside-down perspective.

Suddenly the men stopped pulling him, and instead dropped him on the soil next to a burgeoning campfire. Immediately he lifted his head from the ground and addressed them in an albeit garbled voice.

“Who are you?”

“Ye don’t recall?” said the one man. “I recall the night we deflowered ye.”

Osborne gasped, chills traveling up his spine. So _they’d_ had something to do with his being here. What were they going to do with him?

“Where am I?”

“An island off the coast of Cornwall,” the man answered. “Ye don’t remember us bringing ye here?”

“But why?” Ossie blurted. “I didn’t so much as touch my wife. I listened to—”

“Did thee not demand she return home, against her will?”

Now Ossie was indignant.

“So I am never to speak to her, lest she disagree?!” he roared. “I imagine if marital strife is grounds for being here, this island will soon be overpopulated!”

“Ye’ve not changed a bit in your thinking, just as I’d figured,” the first said, shaking his head with disappointment. “So this is your punishment. Marriage to you from the other perspective. You’re stuck here with no escape, waiting for us to return, like a dutiful wife. And when we do, you are expected to fulfill your duty, no questions.”

Ossie gulped. He raised a tentative eyebrow.

“And what is my duty, if I may ask?”

The reply was instant and crushing.

“Relations. Much like your marital relations. Ain’t that what _God_ wants?”

The vicar’s jaw dropped. The man couldn’t be serious. He was to sit here and wait to be violated by these men over and over again?! He had so many questions. What were these men getting from this arrangement? Who was orchestrating all of this torture upon his person? 

“Who _are_ you people?” he managed to blurt.

“Seekers of justice,” the first said with a shrug. “Some might call us mercenaries or smugglers. But unlike mercenaries an’ smugglers, we ain’t paid in money. We are paid in seein’ justice done. I’m Finn,” the man said. “This here’s Russell. Martin’s not here right now. May as well know our names—we’re the last people you’re ever going to see.”


	6. Missing

Osborne rose haltingly from his position across the moss-covered log, sore and humiliated and enraged at what had been done to him. He’d been forced to submit to Finn—now he knew the name—in the open forest in broad daylight. What humiliation to be exposed where anyone could have seen him! And to know that no matter how loudly he yelled, no one could ever hear him! The thought of it was too much to bear.

The men hadn’t wasted any time making him aware of his new duty this first day. They’d easily chased his limping form through the trees down to the shoreline and taken him right there in open view of the mainland—he could see Cornwall now, so very far away. He’d even noticed their little row boat floating several yards offshore just before they shoved him into the sand. From this side of the island, he could see houses off in the distance, little white specks indicating to him the impossibility of reaching them across the vast English Channel. 

Theoretically, in the outdoors, he’d have plenty of room to run and hide, to fight them off, to keep them from doing their hideous deed. Finn and Russell had within moments had forced him to his knees. Once Russell’s rifle appeared, the fight in him was decimated. He’d been thoroughly humiliated and would only be enduring more of these humiliations in the future. Damn his parents for not teaching him how to swim! So he was to be another Francis Poldark, killed by the lack of a simple heathen skill he’d not been taught!

After Finn and Russell departed, Ossie adjusted his clothes and watched the third man, Martin, lug a big case of bottles onto the beach and stride out into the frothy ocean. These men were indeed smugglers, smuggling alcohol out here on this spit of land, the perfect place to dump him until they wanted to violate him again. 

“What am I to eat?” Ossie remarked loudly, stomping across the sand in his bare feet. Perhaps Martin could be persuaded. He had not been part of the assault and perhaps wasn’t as enthusiastic about the so-called justice his comrades sought to impart. He was also significantly taller and more muscular than his cohorts and could probably beat them both in a physical fight. Could he ally himself with this bodyguard?  
“Whatever you can find,” was Martin’s reply, his shrug barely perceptible.

“So I’m to assume you’ve no provisions for me?” Ossie bleated, standing right at the edge of the water line as he yelled. “You are in essence starving me to death.”

“Ye’ve got time,” was the response. “Ye can feed off that fat belly o’ yours for awhile.”

Ossie looked down at his stomach self-consciously. He’d certainly been told several times by several individuals, Dr. Enys included, of his substantial figure and yet it hadn’t quite sunk in that he was indeed obese. Was it true that his supposed fatness would buy him time? How much time? More importantly, what was he to drink? The alcohol would further dehydrate him and empty his belly, so he could not regularly partake of it to quench his thirst. 

“And what of water?”

“There’s a little stream by the cave you were in,” Martin said, placing the crate in the boat. He turned to face Osborne. “Or dig a big hole, near lots of greenery. May look muddy at first, but if ye let it clear, ye can drink it.”

Now Osborne hesitated, and his eyes narrowed with suspicion. Why had this man been so eager to divulge that information? The three men had provided precious little information about any of this new arrangement. They did not tell him what island he was on, or what he could eat on the island, or how long he’d be here or how often they’d return. But this information was divulged freely…

Martin must have sensed this because he spoke again to Osborne as he slogged back through the waist-deep water.

“Ye won’t live 3 or 4 days without water, so ye ought to know how to get it.”

“Days?” Ossie whimpered. “And how long will I survive without food?”

“Couple of weeks, a month, for most. For you and your fat belly, couple of months, I’d reckon.”

Osborne’s shoulders slumped. He swallowed loudly, tasting the acrid vomit from earlier. Desperation struck him then, like a strong wind. This might be his only chance.

“Listen—I will pay you handsomely if you take me from this place right now,” he babbled, stepping into the water as he approached Martin. “I have connections to George Warleggan, of Warleggan Bank. Surely you’ve heard of it—or him. Not only that, but he has a lot of influence and can make your justices happen from a higher level. I swear to you on my life. God strike me dead. I swear it.”

“Ha,” Martin deadpanned. “George Warleggan. The devil himself. Reason we is smugglers is because of his taxes.”

“My home then,” Ossie blurted. “A compound for your meetings. To put all your smuggled goods. It’s close to Truro and yet secluded enough to be left alone. If you take me from this place, it is yours.”

“What about your wife?”

“What _about_ my wife?” Ossie replied angrily, his face recoiling in disgust. “You want _Morwenna?_ ”

“Aye.”

Ossie looked incredulous. He considered for a moment. It seemed too easy. His freedom in exchange for his defiant, obstinate wife?

“Then she’s yours,” Ossie said with a big smile. “She’s no further use to me. I’ve a male heir now and—”

Martin began shaking his head.

“No,” he said. Osborne followed him out of the water and back to the beach as well as he could on his bruised foot. Now Russell and Finn were approaching, walking onto the sand with crates of alcohol. 

“No _what?_ ” Ossie blurted, limping painfully across the hot sand as he followed Martin. “Are you saying you _don’t_ want her?”

Martin turned around and spoke again.

“She is your wife. Ye promised to love her in the presence of _God _. If ye feel no obligation, no duty to _her_ , then ye feel it to no one.”__

__“I don’t understand,” Ossie whimpered. “You said you wanted her, and I presumed—”_ _

__It was Finn who spoke up next. He strode over to the fat vicar, crate in hand._ _

__“Ye’ve no morals and no conscience and we have delivered you from society as is our duty. This is your sentence.”_ _

__Ossie’s mouth moved but no words came out. He’d been shocked silent by the rebuke. He stood dumbly on the beach as the three men quickly proceeded back out into the water and rowed away in their boat, watching it get smaller and smaller until it was a mere speck by the mainland._ _

__\----------------------------------------------_ _

__Water. He’d have to find water soon. It had already been one day and his belly was emptier now than when he’d gotten here, thanks to the rum._ _

__He staggered back into the forest on his bare feet, limping on his bruised foot. His foot wasn’t the main source of his pain now. His head hurt, his backside hurt, his stomach hurt, his entire body seemed to ache. Perhaps drinking some water would soothe the pain. But where was that damn cave?_ _

__How large was this island? Would he ever find the cave again? Should he simply try to dig a hole? Perhaps he could _hear_ the stream, if he stopped walking._ _

__Ossie stopped moving and stood perfectly still, a warm breeze blowing the trees around him and making their leaves flap noisily in the wind. The tide crashed in the distance. Gulls screamed. His aching empty burbled loudly, demanding food. There was no way he’d hear the slight babbling of a small stream._ _

___So I am to remain here until I die_ , he mused. _All the while being violated whenever those bastards decide to return.__ _

__He considered attempting to swim, but quickly decided against it._ _

___Perhaps when my foot isn’t so painful, it might be easier to try. Tomorrow, perhaps._ _ _

__Even though he was in the dense forest, Osborne could sense that the sun was setting. He had to find the cave soon, because it had been two days he was without water._ _

__He strode along carefully, his bare feet stinging from the sharp stones he encountered along the way. He could hear songbirds up in the trees and thought he spotted a chipmunk, but the animal would be far too fast for him to catch. And what if he could? It would still be impossible to eat the chipmunk. _I can’t even build a bloody fire.__ _

__Eventually he reached a swampy area and his feet sunk into the dark muck that resembled a bog. _This water is stagnant_ , he mused. _Where is that damn cave? I found it yesterday in the dark and yet I cannot find it again today!__ _

__Soon it was becoming too dark to continue. He found a large rock, its dimensions and shape roughly that of a table top, and decided to lie upon it for the night. His head, stomach, backside, and foot paining him, Osborne sighed as he curled up and closed his eyes._ _

__\---------------------------------------_ _

__It was exceptionally early for a knock at the door, with the sun barely beginning to rise in the sky. Lady Chynoweth’s health had greatly improved with the help from her daughters and the local physician and she was better able to move about the house and return to her head of household duties. Even so, Morwenna was the one to answer the door._ _

__“An important letter for thee, Mrs. Whitworth.”_ _

__Morwenna stood at the door of the Chynoweth estate, the mail deliverer already turning around to get back on his horse. John Conan toddled about behind her, giggling as Garlanda gathered him up to be changed. Morwenna’s dark eyes focused on the writing as she unfolded the document, widening as their meaning became apparent._ _

__“What is it, Sister?” asked Garlanda, John Conan perched on her hip. “You haven’t moved a muscle!”_ _

__“It’s Osborne… It says here that he’s missing.”_ _


	7. Duty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is between M/E rating--not as explicit as chapter 2 but probably not strictly in the mature category either.

Oh, the pain! Osborne’s head throbbed with an unrelenting, sharp headache of which he’d never seen! Not only that, but his back ached and his bruised foot was painfully swollen. As he attempted to shift his body off of the rock, his limbs felt heavy and sluggish, much like his being intoxicated.

_My body is already failing me_ , he mused, allowing his malfunctioning body to clumsily roll off of the rock onto the dirt below. 

It was then that he decided to dig for water. There was no time to lose. Surely he’d be dead within the day otherwise.

From a side-lying position, he used his fingernails and prim unworked hands to dig into the thankfully slightly moist soil. He scooped and scooped out handful after handful but no fresh water was appearing. After the hole had been dug out to be a foot deep and a foot wide, he felt hopeless.

If he was dead when the men returned, would they simply leave his corpse here to rot? Or would they bring it back to Sawle to be properly buried and venerated?

_Even if my body is returned to Sawle, Morwenna won’t bring the children to see my grave. I’m certain of it. She will leave Sawle before my casket has been lowered into the ground._

How had he been matched with such an unsuitable mate? His wife loathed him with every ounce of her being, and there was nothing she seemed to want or need from him. She had threatened the life of his child—their child!— to ensure that he’d never touch her again. But had she been clever, been evil enough, to arrange this punishment for him? Morwenna spent all day languishing at home, so how had she recruited the three rapist smugglers to aid in her cause? Had she done so on her way to Bodmin? She had taken a coach—would the smugglers have approached the coach? Had she met them en route? Or had her mother arranged for this upon her arrival and confession of all that she had supposedly been through with him?

It mattered not anymore. He was surely hours from death now, and how he’d gotten here, who had arranged for him to be here, was irrelevant. 

He peered down into the hole he had dug. At the bottom was a tiny pool of brown water.

_It worked_ , he thought. _But it’s all mud. I’ll probably vomit again._

He recalled Martin’s words about letting it clear. How long would that take? He was not a patient man, and time was ticking on his life with every hour of dehydration.

Some crows cawed nearby and he squinted irritably over at them. They seemed to be standing together, eating something. _The cave!_ It was only 20 or so yards away. Ugh. The crows were eating what he had expelled yesterday after he’d drank the alcohol. 

Ossie jammed a large stick into the ground by his makeshift seep and headed haltingly to the cave. His body seemed like it was less his own today, for his muscles weren’t as responsive or graceful. He moved sluggishly, his body actively fighting movement.

Once he’d approached the cave, he recalled being told about the stream. He stood at the mouth of the cave and looked to the left and then to the right. There was a little pathway that seemed to meander around the back of the hill housing the cave. He hungrily began to follow it.

There it was! A little burbling stream, merrily trickling like a miniature waterfall from a sheer rock wall into a small puddle and then flowing down the hill behind his cave. With a smile of hope, he held his filthy hands under the water and without even washing his hands, drank the water within them. He could taste the dirt but didn’t care. It was the best water he’d ever had. Perhaps he would live, at least for a while.

\---------------------------------------

Osborne spent the better part of the day quenching his thirst and also washing what he could of his body. His skin was finally relieved of the sticky saltiness of the seawater. His hair was a mangled mess and there wasn’t much he could do for it, other than rinse the mud from it. He was beginning to feel human again.

_Perhaps tomorrow I will try to teach myself to swim_ , he mused. _I’m not sure where to begin, but perhaps if I stand in shallow enough water, I will remain safe._

His stomach still ached for food, but he’d taken care of his first need. Feeling a renewal of energy, he used water to clean out the remaining vomitus from the cave and fell asleep, his foot resting against a crate, his only tie to humanity.

\---------------------------------------

“You needn’t head back so soon,” Lady Chynoweth insisted, the early morning sun blinding her as she walked toward the door where Morwenna stood with her luggage. “Osborne’s daughters are well-taken care of by your mother-in-law. And your son is safe with us.”  
Morwenna managed a sleepy smile, which faded as she spoke.

“I know, and yet I must go back.”

“Why?”

“I must appear to be a devoted wife,” Morwenna replied, her face once again grim. 

“I would argue that you already _are_ one, in spite of his behavior.”

“That matters not. As I’ve told you, he is looking for any reason to discredit me. To lock me away forever. Perhaps this is his plan.”

“I am surprised you are not more excited about what this could possibly mean. Perhaps he is dead, gone forever! Then you can marry a better—”

“I never wish to marry again,” Morwenna blurted, her jaw set. “Never.”

“Don’t say such things,” her mother remarked, reaching out to stroke her face. “Life is unpredictable.”

“I mean it,” Morwenna insisted. “If Osborne is dead, I will not remarry.”

“Then stay a few more days. If he is indeed dead, he will remain dead. You’ve only just found out about his disappearance yesterday,” her mother replied. “Surely you needn’t leave—”

“I believe this to be a plot by Osborne to have me committed and have my son taken away,” Morwenna replied robotically. “As you recall, he left here quite upset. If I shan’t return home now, he will claim I have abandoned him and that I am an unfit wife. I must go back.”

Her shoulders slumped and she looked much like a beaten dog. The healthier glow she had taken on during her stay in Bodmin was already beginning to fade back to the former sickening paleness. As her mother’s health gradually improved, the news of her husband was rapidly sickening her. 

“So you are going back because of fear? There may be nothing to fear—it is entirely possible that he will never return.”

Morwenna narrowed her eyes at her mother.

“What are you saying, that something happened to him? Mother, did you—”

“I did nothing to the man,” she insisted. “He has enough enemies as it is. You’ve told me of his multitude of vices and perhaps now he is getting his comeuppance for them.”

\---------------------------------------

“Why, good morning, _Wife_!”

Osborne’s eyes shot open and he felt around in the dimness of the cave, fear and dread filling his stomach. He had been lying in a curled position facing the wall of the cave and thus could not see the source of the voice but knew who it was. The men were back. 

“So ye found the water,” he could hear Martin say.

“I did,” he muttered to himself, feeling nauseous at the thought of what he’d be doing today. He remained in his curled up position, unable to sit up or face the men. He sighed quietly. If he had died yesterday, he would not have had to endure whatever was to come today.

“Get anything to eat?” Finn asked.

“No,” the vicar replied.

“Good,” he replied. “I don’t want a fat wife.”

“Ain’t you gonna turn to look at us?” Russell spoke. “We got a present for you.”

“Why should I?” he snapped back. “I know what’s going to happen.”

He felt something touch his backside.

“Did’n ‘ee feel that? ‘Tis my gun,” Russell replied. “I wager that once I pull the trigger, ye will perhaps live a day more bleeding to death and screaming with pain all the while. The crows will peck out your eyes and feast for months on your fat. If ye do value your life in any way, ye will listen up.”

“Turn over, Wife,” Finn said. 

Ossie squirmed uncomfortably, his eyes never lifting from the ground, as he flipped over. There they were, his three rapists, peering at him as they stood outside the cave. All three men appeared to be either his age or older, in their thirties or forties. They all had dirty, unkempt beards and wore plain commoner clothing. Finn seemed to be the oldest of the three, but there was nothing particularly distinctive about the way he looked. Martin was tall and brawny but dressed in the same way as his fellow smugglers. They could have passed for brothers, for miners, for cousins, for completely unrelated inhabitants of Truro. 

“Right.” Finn clapped his hands together and licked his lips. Osborne looked up at him, hatred in his face. 

“Your duty awaits,” Finn continued. “I want you to go to tha’ rock over yonder. Do you see it?” He pointed toward the rock that Ossie had slept on a night ago, the large table-like rock next to his small muddy seep. Ossie’s eyes directed to Finn’s belt buckle, which he was noisily unclasping.

“I do,” the vicar replied, glaring back at Finn’s face. His voice came out surprisingly croaky from disuse over the last couple of days.  
“Then go. Now.”

Osborne dug an elbow into the stony floor of the cave and hoisted his upper body to a seated position. His three assailants looked formidable but he had to speak his mind before this happened again. He wanted to understand where they’d gotten their information. He often referred to Morwenna as Wife and now they were doing it as well. They _had_ to have received orders directly from Morwenna.

“I must… clarify something beforehand,” he began haltingly.

“This better be important,” Finn said with a scowl, his buckle fully undone. With a swift motion, he deftly yanked his belt from around his hips and held it menacingly at his side. “Or I will whip ‘ee with my belt until ye’re begging me to move on to buggering ‘ee.”

The vicar looked up at him and then to the other two men. Finn was holding his makeshift whip. Russell was holding his rifle. Martin was shaking his head slowly and seriously. For whatever reason, the tall man’s silent admonition bothered him the most.

“I suppose it can wait,” he muttered, his eyes falling. So he would have to submit without question. He supposed he was strong-willed enough to withstand such a whipping, but even if he did, nothing would change for him afterwards. They would still force him to submit and he’d be left alone again with more wounds, wounds that would impede his survival. His pride would have to wait.

He stood up awkwardly, his knee nearly giving way when he applied his weight to it. He didn’t allow himself to look at the three men and slowly plodded over to the table rock. Upon arriving at the table rock, he noticed his seep was full of clear water now and he almost felt happy about it, until he heard Finn speak.

“Bend over.”

Ossie shut his eyes and swallowed. When he opened his eyes again, he was in the process of slowly lowering his upper body onto the rock. He could hear the noise of vegetation as Finn approached. He felt the rock’s cool surface against his cheek, as he rested his face and chest heavily upon its flat surface.

A yanking of clothing and his second island assault had begun. 

“This is how it feels to be raped. How it feels to be your _wife_ ,” Finn snarled. “It’s too bad I aren’t as fat as ‘ee so ye can know how it feel to be trapped under a big fat man day after day.”

Osborne blinked several times, images cycling through his head. Was this really what it was like for her? He’d never taken her from behind, but the act was essentially the same, he supposed. 

Unlike the first time he’d been assaulted on the beach, Ossie clenched his jaw as tightly as possible during this violation and the subsequent one by Russell. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of hearing him scream. He tried to remain as stoic as possible but several yelps did inadvertently emerge, and he felt tears running down his face as the pain racked his body.

“Scream,” Russell yelled as he neared the end. He dug his filthy fingernails into Ossie’s soft shoulders. “I wanna hear ‘ee scream, Wife. Wasn’t it Saint Paul that mention somethin’ about screamin’—”

“That’s enough,” a voice spoke. Russell was abruptly pulled away from him and the silence and cold that filled the air behind him was both relieving and terrifying. Who had pulled Russell away? Who had spoken? He dared not turn around.

The silence seemed to last forever. Should he stand up and fix his clothing? Was Martin to take part next? His thoughts were interrupted by Finn.

“Next time ye need to clean up,” the bearded leader remarked, tracing a dirty fingernail across his backside. “I still see the blood from last time.”

Osborne rolled his eyes at the statement. As if he were to make himself presentable to these savages! They seemed to be returning to the island every day. Would this be his new routine? To be awoken by these men, violated, and then left to recover for the remainder of the day?

He began to stand up, his thumbs locked into the waistband of his breeches. As he rose to a standing position, his breeches back in place, Finn shoved him back onto the rock.

“Ye move when I tell ‘ee to move.”

Again his clothes were ripped back down. Osborne erupted with irritation.

“Surely you can’t already be—”

Finn looked off to his side.

“Martin?”

Now Ossie turned his head to look at the tall man, who was standing close to Russell. He watched him ever-so-subtly shake his head and cross his arms, his expression that of disgust. He stifled a smile at the thought, his body sinking as he let out a quiet sigh. 

Perhaps he had a sympathizer. Martin had not partaken of the violence yesterday and had even told him where to find water. He _had_ trapped him into offering Morwenna, but he hadn’t yet assaulted him. In fact, it was likely Martin had just now stopped Russell from forcing him to scream. Perhaps he could convince Martin to return alone to take him back to the mainland. Perhaps he wouldn’t die here.


	8. Suspicion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lady Whitworth and Drake Carne enter the story!

The front door was locked when Morwenna and John Conan returned to Sawle late in the afternoon. She approached the large gray building, its horrible memories locked inside of it, the sun setting behind it in the sky and casting a foreboding shadow over the front door.

Morwenna opened the front door to discover Lady Whitworth’s personal effects piled on a chair. So Osborne’s mother had come to Sawle. It was good that Morwenna had returned so quickly, if only to play the part of doting wife for his husband’s cold, sadistic mother. Lady Whitworth had the same low opinion of Morwenna and would happily do her son’s bidding, whatever the cost.

“Good afternoon, Lady Whitworth,” Morwenna mumbled, bowing her head to her mother-in-law, her son John Conan in her arms. “Any news of Osborne?”

“Don’t patronize me, girl. I know how you really feel about my son. Don’t pretend you aren’t thrilled that he’s gone.”

Morwenna shrugged off the nasty comeback. She was genuinely interested in how his absence came to be known.

“I received a very brief letter yesterday merely informing me that he is missing. Is anything known about what happened?”

The older woman narrowed her eyes suspiciously as she replied.

“Apparently my son knew something was going to happen to him,” Lady Whitworth began, glaring at Morwenna. “The same day he went missing, he requested that Mr. Warleggan send some guards to Sawle. By the time they arrived, he was already gone and his riderless horse was found wandering around Truro.” She paused for a moment, biting the inside of her cheek. “So tell me, did you threaten him, like you threatened his son?”

Morwenna’s eyes grew large and she was startled speechless. So Osborne had told his mother of her desperation. Surely he did not explain the reasoning for her empty threat. He’d brainwashed his mother against her and there was nothing she could say to change that, especially now that he was missing. Perhaps the three men he’d mentioned to her in Bodmin had been real. He said they had maimed him, with no obvious evidence of what exactly they’d done. Had they then come back to kill him? 

“I did no such thing,” she replied. 

“We shall see about that, when he returns,” Lady Whitworth scoffed. “It will be one of the first things I ask him.”

“I don’t understand why you think I had anything to do with his disappearance. I’ve been at my family estate in Bodmin these past several days with my sick mother and my sister Garlanda.”

“Yes, you take a trip to your mother’s, making sure all the children are accounted for in the meantime, and suddenly my son is missing.” 

Morwenna challenged her mother-in-law with her eyes.

“What are you saying?”

“You had something to do with this—I know it,” the older woman remarked pointedly. 

Morwenna blinked. So it would be Osborne’s mother who would now discredit her. And not only that, but blame her for his disappearance!

She raised her eyebrows and replied in a matter-of-fact manner. 

“I wasn’t here.”

The older woman smiled knowingly.

“How convenient, wouldn’t you say?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Morwenna said with a sigh, suddenly feeling utterly drained. “John Conan and I are exhausted from our travels. I pray we receive good news soon. Good day.”

And with that, Morwenna took John Conan up to her chamber and shut the door.

Lady Whitworth was left alone in the hallway, the only sign of her daughter-in-law’s return the jacket left by the door.

In her bedchamber, Morwenna attempted to smile as she placed John Conan on the bed. Soon, all the emotions she’d been feeling emerged, and she sat abed, hugging her young son tightly to her as she sobbed. 

\---------------------------------------

For the next several days, Osborne Whitworth was alone, where he spent most of his time by the cave, sitting or lying down on the stone floor, completely sapped of all energy. His clothes weren’t quite fitting the way they had. He could not feel the familiar pinch of his breeches against the skin of his waist. He did not feel the pressure of buttons near the point of popping off of his waistcoat. 

It was impossible for him to look at himself in a mirror, to visualize these changes. The stream near the cave was not quite large enough to produce a reflective surface to truly see himself, and so he simply sat and explored his appearance with his hands. He could feel his facial hair growing in, his fingers brushing against the coarse auburn stubble peppering his upper lip, chin and jaw. Within a couple of weeks, he’d look no different than his three captors! 

“Is there nothing on this spit of land that I can eat?” he muttered to no one in particular. His head now ached and throbbed continually from his lack of food. Severe abdominal cramps crippled him when he tried to move too quickly. He could recall his optimism about teaching himself how to swim, but that was well beyond his abilities now. 

“Perhaps if I go to the beach, I will see a boat and can wave it down,” he said. His voice sounded oddly foreign to himself. Gone was his high-pitched, tonal way of speaking. His voice was flat, almost gravelly, in addition to the words emerging a lot more slowly.

He staggered awkwardly to his feet and felt faint, quickly planting his hands on the cave wall to steady himself. His nails were now ungainly and long, encrusted with black grime. Happily, his throbbing bruised foot was beginning to recover—it was now an angry shade of yellow-green instead of dark purple. The swelling seemed to be reduced as well, making walking easier. It was too bad that his body didn’t want to do anything but rest.

As soon as his hands left the cave wall, balance was a huge issue. He stumbled out of the cave and into the softer soil of the island, thrusting his hand out to grab a hanging vine for stability.

Perhaps he could make himself a crude cane to support himself. Watching his body fail him minute by minute was embarrassing and more importantly, frightening. Hadn’t Martin said he had months to live? 

An hour later, he reached the sand of the beach. The sun was still shining and the sand was relatively hot, but it felt good on his skin. He’d spent the last week mostly in the shade and his metabolism had slowed to a halt. Perhaps seeing the light of day would help him get some energy.

Osborne squinted his eyes as he peered offshore. There were the tiny white specks of houses, the calm ocean between him and his old life. Why had he never bothered learning how to swim, especially after learning of Francis Poldark’s fate?

His eyes shifted focus now, looking at the frothy surf lapping at the shore. Dark movement under the waves suggested a fish.

A fish sounded quite delicious right now. Could he catch one? Could he bat it out of the waves as it washed onto the beach? If he were in his normal peak physical condition, perhaps, but now his body was weak and slow and uncoordinated.

He looked at his clothes. His waistcoat and shirt were still caked with mud, and his breeches with mud and blood. Perhaps he could use the ocean water to gain some semblance of cleanliness.

When he removed his shirt, he first noticed the difference in his stomach. It still protruded, but less so, much like a deflating balloon. At certain angles, it almost looked sunken in. He dipped his shirt and waistcoat in the water and used his hands to scrub them of the mud. He then used the trees as a type of clothesline to allow the articles of clothing to dry in the sun.

The breeches would be more difficult. His drawers had somehow gone missing since he'd gotten to the island, and he had nothing on under them. Osborne sighed. He would have to wait for his shirt to dry before he would clean his breeches.

Sitting in the sun was proving to be more pleasant than he expected. His skin felt warm to the touch again—his lack of food this past week made him feel clammy and cold—and he felt more alive. If there was only some kind of food he could eat!

He should have been marking his days gone on some implement, carving tally marks into a tree or something. Had he been here 4 days? A week? A month? Days melted into days and there was no delineation of time. From his perspective by the cave, he hadn’t witnessed sunrises and sunsets. 

Had Morwenna since returned home? Or had someone determined that he was missing, and had sent a letter telling her to stay put in Bodmin? And what of his mother, and his daughters? Had they tried to return to Sawle? Had George Warleggan sent guards to guard an empty house? Had Rowella made an attempt to walk to Sawle in the new shoes he’d indirectly bought her? Had another vicar taken over church services at St. Sawle?

Osborne attempted to picture life in Cornwall without him. 

Morwenna returning home with John Conan and finding the house empty, and smiling. Hmph. God knows what had happened to his horse. Perhaps his captors had forced it over a cliff, to make it appear as if he’d plunged to his death. Perhaps it had run home, riderless. He’d never know.

He could see Morwenna now, firing the governess. A new vicar would be assigned to Sawle, and Morwenna and his children would pack their bags and move away. They would steal away in the night and move to some undisclosed location, and his mother would wither away, torn away from her grandchildren forever. His daughters and son would then be raised solely by his impudent wife. Would they miss him? Would they question his absence? He thought of his lack of closeness to his children, to his wife.

His stomach felt hollow and a dark cloud descended on him. Did they wish him dead?

\---------------------------------------

The small knock at the door would not stop, try as she might to ignore it. In fact, as it continued, it grew louder and more insistent and was more like a rapping now. Lady Whitworth had gone back to her estate in Truro for the time being—she had not told her if or when she’d be returning to Sawle. Morwenna had since resigned herself to her room with John Conan, only emerging from the room to check on Sarah and Anne, who managed well enough. She would not be receiving visitors. 

“Morwenna,” a voice called out. “It’s Drake, Drake Carne. I came to see thee.”

From her bedroom window, she could hear his voice. The waves of self-pity that continuously washed over her had made it nigh impossible for her to get out of bed for days, but she managed to overcome it at the sound of his voice, slowly approaching the window to peer out. 

Drake Carne stood at her front door, looking as boyishly handsome as ever, his clothes ragged but clean. His mouth was held in a serious grimace and she winced. Was he angry at her?

“I love thee, Morwenna,” he called out. “I just wanted ye to know that I love thee and nothin’ will e’er change that.”  
With that, he turned to leave, unfurling his crumpled hat from the ball he’d made out of it and placing it back on his head.

He was leaving—perhaps for good. Panic rose in her throat.

Morwenna’s window opened with a loud squeak, and Drake turned around abruptly to up at her, his dark eyes instantly locking on hers.

“Ahh, I’m so glad to see thee,” he said, his entire face reflecting pure happiness.

She could not smile. Her face remained white and devoid of expression, a haunted woman in a haunted house.

“You have to leave. Please.”

“Why,” he replied, his eyes searching hers. “Is Osborne back? I didn’ hear such news—”

“No, he is not,” she replied. “But you must forget about me. For your own sake.”

“I could ne’er forget thee, Morwenna. I love thee and will always be here if ye need me.”

“I don’t need anyone.” A tear slipped down her nose and she hoped that Drake was far enough way that he wouldn’t see it. “I have my children—that is enough. If my mother-in-law should catch wind of your visiting here, she would surely claim I was unfaithful to my husband and take the children away. You must go.”

“Is there anything I can do for thee? Anything at all.”

“You must forget me,” she replied. And with that she let out a sob, and shut the window.


	9. Signs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Author note: I am a bit disheartened. I knew the audience who would be interested in this story would be small, but I've no comments, and it's been 8 chapters now. Can anyone who is interested/reading this leave me even a tiny bit of feedback?

CHAPTER 9

“You’re neglecting the children, and yourself,” Lady Whitworth asserted upon her return to Sawle several days later, her eyes scanning her daughter in law from top to bottom. Morwenna’s hair was unkempt, her dress wrinkled and dark bags under her eyes. “Just look at you. Where is that governess?”

“I’m doing the best I can, considering,” Morwenna replied to her mother-in-law, sadness welling up inside her. “Osborne didn’t leave us much money and I had to let go of our governess.”

“It’s only been a week since he’s been declared missing!” Lady Whitworth exclaimed. “Are you such a spendthrift that your savings are already gone?”

“I am not the spendthrift,” the younger woman muttered, the fight in her all but totally gone. Osborne had been paying her sister several times a week for dalliances, that she knew. It was Rowella who had most of the Whitworth savings, but Morwenna couldn’t say anything about that to Osborne’s brainwashed mother.

“Sarah and Anne tell me you’ve been spending most of your time this past week in your room. How are you to properly mother your children when you’re asleep?”

“I’m not asleep when I’m in my room,” Morwenna replied. “And John Conan is there with me.”

“Ah, so in essence you’ve rejected the children of your husband, who are now effectively orphans. How very… Christian of you.”

Morwenna’s eyes filled with tears. Her mother-in-law was a cruel, sadistic woman who had singlehandedly turned Osborne into the monster that he was. Even so, she had to be civil to this woman, who had the power to take her children away.

“I prepare them food and I ensure that their clothes have been clean. They are now old enough to—” 

“They need a mother figure. And that figure can’t be you.”

“I have been ill as of late. It has been a trying time for all of us.”

“What, did you catch your mother’s ailment? And what of John Conan? Has he got it too? You should never have left my son.”

“I did not leave him.” The tears spilled down her face. “I am in fact carrying his child.”

\---------------------------------------

The men returned to the island each day over the next few days, and when they did, it was always Finn and Russell who made Osborne perform his supposed duty to them. 

He’d attempt to escape with his limited energy level, but would be left bloody and covered in sand by the end. Surely the loss of blood was hastening his demise, and soon he found it was the only benefit of the encounter. He was in hell and the sooner he could leave, the better.

Sometimes Martin would stop the assaults early. Though he never partook of the assaults, he didn’t try to prevent them from happening.

Osborne knew not how many days had passed, only recalled them as violations. By now it was nearly twenty, with days or perhaps even a week or more in between some of them. All he knew of the time he had left was that it was becoming more and more difficult to wake up, more and more difficult to do the daily tasks that kept him from descending into animalhood. 

The area he relieved himself was uncomfortably close to him now, and though he could smell the strong urine, especially on breezy days, he didn’t bother to move away. He was filthy and unkempt and ever thinner by the day.  
He stared at the table rock from his position in the protected alcove, rain pouring in sideways and drenching him as day became night, the sunset hidden behind the dark pendulous clouds. Osborne’s filthy clothes became brown with mud, his shirt almost transparent, and he wrapped his arms around his thin body and shivered violently, praying he’d die of hypothermia sometime in the night. He had only meager fat stores to protect him anymore and he could feel the back of his ribs through his ever-thinning shirt. 

The last several times the men had visited him and brutalized him, they had made it a point to mention the experience as being his punishment, his punishment for being a rapist as well as being a dishonest, sadistic, hypocritical man. These three men, Finn, Russell, and Martin, were messengers of God, they said. Wait until your real punishment begins in hell, they said.

Was this not hell? 

\---------------------------------------

Reverend Osborne Whitworth was still missing. Some local resident had found a boot washed up along the shore of Cornwall but it hadn’t been conclusively linked to him. It was as if he’d disappeared without a trace.

Lady Whitworth had effectively moved her possessions into Sawle to help care for the children, and for most of the time, Morwenna was left alone in her room, getting weaker by the day. Morning sickness was unrelenting and she’d eaten little as a result and had lost significant weight since the realization of her pregnancy.

Lady Whitworth had graciously hired some help for the house, including a chef, a maid, and a new governess. Meals were nutritious but wholly uncomfortable, with the table set for Morwenna, Sarah, Anne, John Conan, and Lady Whitworth, who spoke in formal tones with the children while completely ignoring her daughter in law.

Morwenna did not want the child. It was already difficult enough depending on her mother-in-law for money and hiring new help, and she’d be further tied to the Whitworth family with another one of Ossie’s ill-begotten children. John Conan was all she cared about—she could find no love for the child growing in her womb. 

The only upside of Osborne’s child growing within her was that it effectively kept Lady Whitworth from taking John Conan from her. If Lady Whitworth were to take the children and leave Morwenna at Sawle, that would mean leaving behind her son’s fourth child. Morwenna knew that if she were to lose the child, Lady Whitworth would probably waste no time in taking John Conan from her. And so she spent most of the ensuing days getting by with a mixture of hope and dread.

\---------------------------------------

“You must eat, Morwenna,” Lady Whitworth sternly rebuked, as they sat at the dinner table one evening. “You must keep up your strength. My grandchild’s life—your child’s life—depends on it.”

“I am trying but I am very nauseous all the time,” the brunette replied. It was one of the first times Lady Whitworth had addressed her at the table. The food smelled extremely distasteful to her and it was all she could do not to vomit in front of everyone.

\---------------------------------------

It was on day twenty-four of his banishment that Osborne Whitworth began to fear for his soul.

In this time, he had been violated countless times by his captors, and had lost a significant amount of weight, only subsisting on the occasional handfuls of berries, swigs of rum, and bitter leaves that left his stomach feeling more hollow than before. 

He sat outside his cave, hearing the hellish little bats congregating inside, and felt despair.

He still attempted to stubbornly pray to God every day, for less and less time, for his deliverance, for justice and freedom, and nothing had changed. Apparently this was God’s answer, that he was to stay here, as punishment. _I am being punished._ His stomach constantly rumbled and squealed and he hadn’t experienced a bowel movement for weeks. His body was shutting down now as a consequence of being brought to this uninhabited spit of land. His sentence was a death sentence and he had endless silence and isolation to think about himself and what had gotten him here.

It had now been several days since his captors had returned. As much as he hated their assaults, having no human contact for days was rapidly altering his mental state. During the day he could only think of what he, a man of God, had done to deserve such a fate. During the night, he slept fitfully, anxious and terrified of the enduring blackness, of the creatures he could not see, creatures that were watching him when he slept. Perhaps God himself would descend to this island in the night and smite him. Perhaps he deserved it.

He woke up covered in sweat several times a night, searching the darkness for some supernatural being come to collect him for hell. Sometimes bats would enter his little cave and their screeching would awaken him, sending him fleeing on hands and knees in terror from the cave.

Osborne’s head throbbed and swam as he leaned back on his haunches, looking back at the dark hole he slept in at night. This was the third time this night he had afforded such a view, having fled it twice earlier. The bats were in there now and he would not return this night. He could barely make out the form of the table-like rock he had slept on and had been violated on. 

Perhaps he should speed justice along. He could walk out into the dark waves and let the water take his life as it had Francis Poldark. He could gorge himself on the brightly colored leaves that grew along the stream in the hope that they were poisonous. He could drink rum until he lost consciousness.

The bats were in the cave, skittering and flapping their leathery wings. He’d have to wait until tomorrow to start drinking, if indeed that was the decision he should make. He strode out slowly and carefully to the table-like rock. Rather than climbing up on it and lying on it, however, he bent over onto it, much like he’d been forced to do by his captors. Osborne clasped his hands together and laid his head onto the rock.

“Heavenly Father, I request a sign from Thee,” he began, his voice breaking. “Is this my fate, to die here? Or is there a chance that I can atone for my sins?”

He didn’t know what else to say. Upon finishing his prayer, he sank to his knees and curled up at the base of the table-rock, shivering himself into an uneasy sleep.

\---------------------------------------

It was in the morning of day twenty-six of her husband’s absence that Morwenna started to bleed. 

Breakfast progressed as was the new normal until Morwenna excused herself from the table, her abdomen cramping painfully. Sarah and Anne looked up to see her leave, but Lady Whitworth was incensed. Her daughter in law had barely eaten the food the chef she’d hired made, and now she was going to start leaving meals early? It was very disrespectful and she stood up abruptly and followed Morwenna. 

Lady Whitworth didn’t bother knocking on the door, and found Morwenna on her chamber pot, her eyes red. Before she could say anything, Morwenna spoke, her face buried in her hair.

“I’m losing the baby.”

“What?” Lady Whitworth replied, blinking indignantly. “How can you be sure?”

“I’m bleeding,” Morwenna explained, her arms wrapped around her abdomen as she sat, doubled over. “And I’m cramping very badly.”

“Surely that doesn’t necessarily—”

“I’ve been told it’s often the sign of a loss.”

“Did I not tell you to eat more? Good God, girl, you can’t even take care of a child when it’s inside of you!”

She couldn’t take Lady Whitworth any more. This time the woman had crossed the line and she wouldn’t abide it.

“Get out!” Morwenna yelled as tears streamed down her face, her curly brown hair hanging in tangled mats over her eyes. “Get out, you hateful bitch!”

“You will regret this,” Lady Whitworth muttered, and shut the door, leaving Morwenna to her pain and sorrow with not so much as a glance back.

\---------------------------------------

No signs came to Osborne from God. Again he sat, day after day, his throat dry and empty, staring at the vegetation as if it were on some alien planet. He’d been careful to eat any new plants slowly, giving them time to affect his stomach before he then gorged himself on all that he could find, but the ripe clumps of burdock and sorrel he’d been barely subsisting on were now almost impossible to find. He’d crushed up some dandelion leaves and eaten them but it was now approaching late fall and they were old, extremely bitter, and already beginning to shrivel with the arrival of colder weather. Now all that remained on the island were various types of unrecognizable leaves. Should he attempt to eat these unfamiliar plants? What about insects? The large mushrooms jutting out from rotten trees like steps? The bright red berries climbing up the pine trees? They looked nothing like the berries he’d eaten so far—perhaps they were poisonous. Perhaps they would hasten his demise.

_God forgive me._

Having gathered a rather large handful of the red berries, Ossie jammed them rather clumsily into his mouth. They were sour and unpalatable and he almost gagged at their offensive flavor.

_I must do this. I cannot wait to die here for however long that may take._

He forced himself to swallow the sour mouthful of berries. Then, he waited.

Minutes passed, but nothing occurred. Surely if the berries were poisonous he’d be feeling something by now. Perhaps his head would get foggy and his eyes would attempt to shut or perhaps breathing would come with more difficulty.

Rather, he felt sick to his stomach.

Soon he was looking at what remained of the berries, splattered all over the ground in front of him.

Initially he felt disappointed, but then realized his epiphany, his earnest prayers he’d be repeating every night. Was this the sign from God he had been looking for? Perhaps he was not meant to die.


	10. Day of Reckoning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to the commenters! I applied some of the helpful feedback to this chapter (and future ones surely as well!)
> 
> I am so happy to see comments!

CHAPTER 10

Morwenna’s morning sickness vanished as soon as the bleeding had ceased. Surely she had lost the child. And with this realization, Lady Whitworth had gone from being barely civil to being downright cruel. The woman had gone to Truro to speak to her benefactors and other high society, and had returned in mere days with an official-looking form that had been completed in the neatest of cursive.

“I will be taking the children as their guardian,” she said to Morwenna, her head held high as she instructed the movers to take the last of the possessions she’d brought. “You have been neglecting the well-being of my only grandchildren and I cannot sit by and accept that. I sympathize with your loss—it is my loss as well—but you are barely coping and a mother must _cope_. I permit you to visit them from time to time, but you must make arrangements with me first.”

“How can you do this to me?” Morwenna cried. She’d lost all sense of propriety and stood before her immaculately dressed mother-in-law in nothing but a shift, her hair tousled and knotted, eyes red-rimmed with nearly constant tears. “I tolerated your son’s constant violations of my body. I gave him a male heir. I—”

“I do not wish to be privy to the details of your married life,” Lady Whitworth spat. “You should be glad that I fed you and took care of you, knowing full well that you never loved my son.”

Morwenna snarled at the women just then.

“He was a monster, just like you.”

Interestingly, Lady Whitworth didn’t reply. She simply glared at her daughter-in-law, her lips pursed. Suddenly, she turned away from Morwenna.

“Come, children!” Lady Whitworth exclaimed, clapping her hands. “Morwenna is rather tired and must be abed. We’re leaving now.”

Morwenna grabbed her mother-in-law’s wrist, her face poisonous.

“I am John Conan’s mother at least—he will not know me by my name.”

Lady Whitworth pulled her wrist away and dusted it as if disgusted.

“You should be grateful that he will know you at all.”

\---------------------------------------

The second boot that was found was definitely his—a tall, leather riding boot with a distinctive nick out of the heel. It matched the first found boot exactly. Lady Whitworth had identified it; she had had them custom-made for her son at a shop in Truro. The long coat that was found was identified as Osborne’s as well—the search party had found it floating off-shore several hundred yards from Sawle, encrusted with salt.

It had been determined that Reverend Osborne Whitworth was dead, drowned in the English Channel or perhaps killed from a fall from the cliffs of Cornwall. Morwenna received the certificate of his death and stared at it in wonder. So this hadn’t been a trick to prove her loyalty to him. He wasn’t bursting through the door into her room, opening his dressing gown and demanding maternal affection. He wasn’t with his mother, laughing as they watched the children play at the Whitworth estate. He was dead, his body bloated and mottled somewhere, slowly disappearing by way of seagulls or perhaps fish.

Lady Whitworth soon purchased a plot in the Sawle Church graveyard for her son and a short funeral ceremony was planned. 

Morwenna managed to comb her hair well enough that she appeared to be clean, and had slipped on a black mourning gown. With no one to help her, she was unable to wear a corset beneath her dress, but she was so slender now, a corset wasn’t necessary. She left the house and entered the crisp fall air where several familiar faces waited.

George and Elizabeth Warleggan watched her carefully as she proceeded to the new tombstone, the date of death having been carved to the day he’d gone missing. It was a wide, expensive tombstone, as wide as Osborne was in life. There was no gaping hole in the earth in front of the tombstone, waiting to receive his oversized mortal form.

It was then that she noticed some of the others attending the funeral. Dr. Enys, her savior who’d singlehandedly put a stop to the assaults, was present, as was his wife Caroline. Ross and Demelza Poldark were here as well, standing near the empty grave with her brother Sam Carne, their servant Prudie, and their children Jeremy and Clowance. Demelza gently patted Morwenna’s arm and flashed her a look of sorrow as she wordlessly passed them by. She hadn’t spoken to her friends for so long that they were like strangers to her again.

After she took her place near the stone, she could see Lady Whitworth approaching the graveyard at a feverish pace, with John Conan, Sarah and Anne trailing behind her long black skirts. It had been a week since she’d last seen her son and her eyes welled with tears.

Before she could approach her son and take him in her arms, before she could say anything at all, Morwenna’s breath caught in her throat and she froze in place at the sight of another attendee. There was the man she’d both dreaded and anticipated seeing today: Drake Carne.

\---------------------------------------

“I made ye something,” Drake murmured, holding out a tiny wrapped trinket as the service ended. There was no repass to further celebrate her wicked husband, just a tombstone and the ground that didn’t even want him. 

Thankfully, Lady Whitworth and most of the guests had left Sawle, leaving Ross and his family and Demelza’s two brothers to stand quietly near her. She glanced at the blacksmith with trepidation and suspicion. 

“What is it?”

“It’s a cross,” he explained. “to remind ye that the Lord be watching out for thee.”

“I don’t need any more religion in my life,” she muttered, frowning deeply. “I’ve had quite enough of it for a thousand lifetimes.”

“Can I speak with thee just a bit longer?” he asked, looking boyish and younger than his years with his eyebrows cocked in his concerned way.

“Fine,” she replied coldly. He tried to reach out to her but she flinched at his touch. “Please, don’t touch me.”

They walked side by side but a safe distance apart to the estate. Drake proceeded into Morwenna’s home with the utmost seriousness. She offered him a seat and yet did not sit down.

“Is there anything I can do for you, Morwenna?” he asked her. 

“Ross and Demelza and even Dr. Enys have offered their aid. I assure you; I do not need any help.”

“It’s right chilled in here,” he said, upon entering the roomy building. “Have ye any firewood?”

She balked at his question. It was something she badly needed and something she could not provide for herself. It was now autumn and the nights were colder. She’d resigned herself to simply piling the various blankets and duvets from the house on her bed at night.

“I do not.”

“Let me cut thee some,” he suggested, his smile boyish and sweet. “I will bring some by every day. Ye need to stay warm, Morwenna—a cold winter’s comin’. If ye aren’t up to receivin’ me that day, I will leave ‘em by the front door for thee.”

“I thank you kindly,” she replied, bowing her head. 

“An’ what of food? Have ye any provisions?”

“I manage well enough. My brother-in-law provides food when he can.”

“Do they not struggle as well?”

Her brow wrinkled at the comment; she was offended. If Arthur Solway would attempt to knock on her door when he stopped by, she would certainly refuse his deliveries, but he had been simply leaving the items by her door along with a note and some money from her sister. She would not dream of allowing the precious food to go to waste and so she had begrudgingly accepted the items.

“What are you implying?” 

“I have no one to provide for an’ I make a decent sum—let me help thee with such expenses.”

“I must refuse, Drake—I have heard of your smithy being burned to the ground and I cannot expect you to—”

“Please. I insist,” he said softly. 

She sighed tiredly. It was no use arguing with a man. It had never gotten her anywhere before. She was far too exhausted and empty to even consider the notion.

Drake had more to say.

“D’ye think it fair that Lady Whitworth took the childre—”

“I don’t, but I am powerless in the matter,” she said, her eyes distant and sad. “She has produced documents of her guardianship, signed by judges she knows personally. She has taken my reason for living from me.”

And with that, she began to cry. Instinctively, Drake stood up, to try to comfort her. But as he approached her with arms outstretched, she cowered away, like an abused dog.

“I am ruined, Drake. Osborne destroyed me in every way: mind, body, and soul. Perhaps it is fitting that I am alone. I am broken and cannot function in this world.”

Drake sat back down at the table, clasping his hands together on the tabletop. He looked up at her, his eyes welling with pity.

“It may take ye some time, but with new experiences and kindness, ye may be able to—”

“He violated me hundreds upon hundreds of times. He forced himself on me nearly every day of our marriage…”

“I’d no idea,” Drake replied, looking sympathetic and sad. “I’d heard only recently that ye married him to protect me from hangin’, after ‘twas thought I’d stole the Bible from George Warleggan.”

She could only look at him, her eyes filled with tears.

“This is my fault entirely, Morwenna!” he cried, and he placed his face in his arms and sobbed. “I’d do anything to take this all back—even lettin’ ‘em hang me.”

“This was all George Warleggan’s doing,” Morwenna scoffed. “He stopped at nothing to marry me to that vile creature. None of this was your fault.”

“Is there somethin’ else—anythin’ else—I can do to help ye, Morwenna? Anything at all. What of John Conan? D’ye want me to—”

“There’s nothing you can do about my son,” she told him. “As I said, Lady Whitworth has all the paperwork to show that she is his rightful guardian. I can only hope that I shall see him in another life.”

“What if I get him back? I could talk to—”

“I will not allow you to risk your life for me,” she said sternly. “Do not do anything about the situation. George Warleggan and Lady Whitworth would both be glad to see you hang. It would break me completely, Drake. Please do not pursue this any further, if only for my sake.”

“As ye wish,” he replied mournfully. 

\-----------------------------------

Osborne Whitworth was already sitting on the beach when the rowboat came into view through the fog of the morning. It had been weeks since he had seen the trio last, the lack of humanity greatly affecting his state of mind.

The only human he’d been in contact with during this time was Morwenna, if only in his nightmares. Her dark, intense eyes had been haunting him these past couple of weeks. He'd see them upon closing his eyes at night. They’d peer deep into his soul with vengeance, leaving him to wake up sweaty and panicked.

He had raped his wife. He had pinned her down under his body and yanked up her nightclothes and raped her, just as Finn and Russell had done to him. He could recall the fear in her eyes as he’d enter her chamber at bedtime and how she’d visibly shrink back and beg to be left alone as he’d untie the belt of his dressing gown. If he still refused him, he’d quote some obscure scripture or threaten to slap her to make her acquiesce. Her dark eyes would plead with him as he descended upon her, her small body squirming under his and her ragged breathing becoming quick and shallow as her nightly panic turned to revulsion, her lungs squashed under his girth. The fight would soon be sapped out of her and she’d lie there, quietly sobbing as he finished and rolled off of her. His nightly violations had turned her from a soft-spoken dark-eyed beauty into a desperate, sickly waif of a woman who barely spoke or ate. And he’d still presumed she’d loved him! He had been blind but now he could see. He could see that this punishment had to end. If that meant his life had to end, so be it.

The rowboat dropped an anchor a hundred yards off-shore. He could see three individuals emerging from the vessel and chills went down his spine. This was the day of reckoning. Today his captors looked like dark bedraggled apparitions, come to deliver his final fate. If today wasn’t the day they would end this life for him, he would beg for it to be so. 

“Why, ye’ve lost a bit o’ weight!” Russell cheerfully commented as they made footfall on the sand. “Our fat wife is no more! Only took ye forty days to get here!”

 _Forty days._ He gasped at the thought of how long he’d been here. Time had been immaterial until this point—days melted into days and nights melted into nights. It was his new reality, with time punctuated by pain, assaults, and days of nothingness. Martin had told him he could survive for a couple of months, and it was now well into his second month, and he had depleted his body fat entirely. For forty days he had starved, for forty days he had slept outdoors like a heathen, for forty days he had awaited the arrival of rapists who had never given him any hope that they’d help him.

Except for now. Perhaps he should beg. Beg them to kill him or beg them for mercy. He was done. This would be his last day of starving. He would insist upon it. 

“Has ‘ee eaten anything since we saw ye last?” Martin asked him. “Ye are a might skinny.”

Osborne glanced down at his stomach in his seated position. His belly was now concave. He could see bones in his ankles and wrists that he hadn’t seen since adolescence. He knew he’d lost a significant amount of weight—even his face was angular, his jawline defined. With the combination of his angular face and facial hair, he surely looked more like his captors than like himself.

He thought of the red berries. He hadn’t quite eaten them, because they’d come right back up. The plants he had been subsisting on had long since disappeared from the island, not only due to his over-foraging, but because of the arrival of autumn. Rather than explain, Ossie shook his head.

“Ye mean to say ye’ve not even tried to sample the plants or catch a bug or anythin’?”

“They are gone. Winter will soon be here and everything will die. Please, can you spare me any food at all.”

“Nahhh,” Russell replied, looking amused. “Can’t have ‘ee gettin’ fat again, can ‘ee?”

“Please.” Now Osborne was begging. He would commit to his charge. He painstakingly pulled his aching, failing body to a kneeling position. From his low position kneeling on the sand, leaning back on his haunches, he gazed up at the men with his thin, bearded face. “I’m starving to death. Everything hurts. I beg of you: end my life then, if I am never to eat again. I am finished.”


	11. The Last Lash

Finn, Russell, and Martin looked at each other at Ossie’s plaintive request. They moved several paces away from him on the beach and stood in a circle, whispering their thoughts on the matter.

Osborne remained on his knees, watching the trio decide his fate. He swallowed several times, terrified of what they’d say. The worst they could say was no. Better options included their drowning or shooting him right now, to spare him from the worst to come. 

“Here’s our deal. We wish ye to confess all yer sins and then to pick us a suitable implement with which to beat the aforementioned sins right out of ‘ee.”

“I-implement?” Ossie stammered, his mind thick from lack of nutrition. 

“Whip, switch, what-have-ye.”

Ossie paused a moment before speaking, his expression that of trepidation.

“Is it my understanding, then, that I shall be beaten to death?”

Amused by the determined seriousness with which Osborne had posed the question, Finn chuckled as he replied.

“Ha—ye actually seem to be considerin’ it. But no—in exchange, food will be provided as ye requested. Ye've to earn it.”

Martin spoke next, shrugging languidly.

“May as well be honest with ‘ee. All there is’s two strips of salt pork an’ two raw potatoes.”

Ossie’s mouth watered at the thought. He didn’t even consider for a second.

“I’ll do it.”

\---------------------------------------

“Go ahead. Confess. Don’t have to be in official church style, just a list. Otherwise, might take too long for ‘ee.”

“I understand,” Osborne replied. He was still kneeling in the sand. His captors were standing in front of him, watching him carefully as he gathered his strength. “I am trying to think of where to begin.”

He had had so many isolated hours to think about his behavior, about how others regarded him. Morwenna always recoiled with revulsion at the sight of him. Elizabeth Warleggan had made her dissatisfaction with him abundantly clear whenever she had spoken to him. His daughters largely ignored him, playing quietly in the house and saying very little to him at all times. Even the seductress Rowella had used him, blackmailed him in the most intimate of ways, for the mere monetary benefits it afforded her.

“How about the worst sins first? An’ ye must look at us, not down at the sand. Loses its sincerity.”

Osborne could feel his body shaking as he attempted to speak. His mouth moved but no words came out. He would start with the worst. 

“I—I have raped my wife, Morwenna… countless times…” he began, forcing his eyes to stay locked on his captors though they wanted to sink to the ground. “…leading her to take desperate measures, including threatening the life of our son.”

Finn’s face turned ugly and angry, and Ossie cringed. Had he said something wrong?

“What?” he blurted.

“This is about your sins,” Finn chastised, “not about how she’s enduring them.”

“I’m sorry—where was I,” he muttered, glancing at the ground. His eyes raised again, this time focusing on Russell and Martin. “I have been unfaithful to both Morwenna and my first wife—namely with prostitutes, but also with Morwenna’s younger sister. I have broken my sacred vow in using my parishioners’ deathbed confessions to aid George Warleggan in making more money. I have struck Morwenna. I—”

“Tell us more about your sins against your second wife,” Russell commented. “How many times did ye say ye violated her?”

“I—right, well—I don’t know how many times,” he babbled, shaking his head. He hadn’t expected to be interrupted. 

“Ye are an educated man. Try to figure it out proper.”

“Well—from our wedding night until it was nearly time for her to give birth to our son. Several times a week, until Dr. Enys entered the picture and told me to cease relations. There were times after that as well, though more infrequent.” He couldn’t help but stare off into the distance as he recounted the frequency of violations. “So… nine months is… so many weeks, and several times each week.” He shook his head, looking quite ashamed. “I don’t know.”

His eyes fell as he finished attempting to approximate the number. Were they intending on putting an approximate number to his violations of her, and then matching them? Oh, God, he hoped not.

“That seems good for now,” Finn announced. Osborne’s eyes fell to the ground and his shoulders sank. “Now it is time for thee to find us an implement so we can henceforth beat those sins out of thee. I offer my belt as an option.”

With that, Finn removed his belt and placed it on the sand. That made things easier. Osborne began to reach for the belt when he was halted by Finn’s foot on the article. He looked up at Finn, confused.

“Are ye saying your sins are punishable by a mere strip o’ leather?”

Chills ran through his body, though it was hot on the beach. He would have to find something sufficiently painful to prove his remorse. 

“I will go look,” he muttered, thereafter attempting to stand up. 

As the three men stood on the beach, he took one last glance at them as he painfully made his way to his feet and then limped slowly into the forest.

\---------------------------------------

So he had confessed. An invisible burden had been lifted from his shoulders, but his punishment remained. He had confessed to these three men and would now be whipped for his transgressions. Would the punishments ever end? He had already been marooned and starved, and had been violated more times than he could count. Was this what he had to endure until his body finally ceased to function from lack of food? Perhaps this punishment was both meant to save him, by means of food, and to kill him. Perhaps this was God’s answer and these men were truly His messengers.

Osborne moved slowly through the thick trees. He had no idea what to look for. What if he picked a brittle branch that snapped off as soon as it struck him? Would he then be punished for his poor choice of implement? He was not an expert on the flexibility of tree branches or the type of wood typically used for a switch. 

A nearby pine tree swayed in the island breeze, its branches moving around freely. Perhaps it had the flexibility, but the strength? He wasn’t certain.

Halfheartedly, he reached up and broke off a large segment of the pine branch. He held it then in an arm and reached back, slapping it against its own tree to test for strength. It didn’t break but then again, it wasn’t a very thick branch. 

The longer he took to find the implement, the longer it would be before he could eat. He would be given two strips of salt pork and two potatoes!

Feeling some determination returning to his weakened body, Osborne turned around and headed back toward the beach.  
“Back already, eh?” Finn laughed. “I hope ye found one suitable for your offenses or our deal is null and void.”

Osborne swallowed. Perhaps he should just be honest about his lack of knowledge about trees. He approached the men, still standing where they had been earlier. But then he saw it, lying next to the belt—it hadn’t been there earlier. Was that a cat o’ nine tails?

“So what’ll it be?” Russell chuckled. “That little pine bough? That what you’re going to go with?”

His mouth twitched as he looked at the implement. Gooseflesh appeared on his skin as he realized the severity of what he’d have to endure. Exhaling, he bent over and picked up the cat o’ nine tails. His other hand dropped the pine branch. 

“Is that your final decision? The cat?”

“Yes,” Osborne said, his voice breaking. This was going to be incredibly painful. He’d watched public punishments before—the stockades, the gallows, even the guillotine on one occasion. Nothing was more stomach-turning to him, however, than a public scourging. They were always prolonged and painful and bloody and now he would be enduring one. And with the use of the cat o’nine tails, his punishment would be no different than those.

\-------------------------------------------

He’d never hugged a tree before and certainly never without a shirt on. Usually the punished were tied to some kind of post but that was not possible here. Besides, he was volunteering for this, in exchange for much-needed food. He had to remember that, especially throughout his impending flogging.

Strangely enough, Finn, Russell, and Martin hadn’t even instructed him on what to do. The vicar had tentatively handed Finn the whip and then he’d proceeded, cringing, over to a tree trunk devoid of branches. Recalling his earlier observations of similar public whippings, he removed his shirt and placed it on the ground beside him. 

Though the vicar had left his threadbare breeches on, his hollowed-out body was quite obvious now to the men. He’d lost all of his girthy waist. His limbs were sinewy, the fat cut away from the muscle. Even so, starvation had already caused him to lose muscle mass in his body. His neck and shoulders actually looked scrawny from this position, his breeches slipping off of his now slender hips as he stood against the tree. 

Not only had his body changed, but his lack of grooming had altered his entire appearance. Osborne’s hair was longer now, and wild, and his face held a rather filled-out auburn beard. It was almost as if Finn would be whipping one of his own smugglers.

The first strike landed right in the center of Ossie’s back between his shoulder blades. The vicar arched backward at the insult, yelping out loudly at the sudden sharpness of it.

“Was that hard enough, d’ye reckon, or should it be harder? Think on your sins, Vicar.”

Tears had already filled Osborne’s tightly shut eyes and his breathing was ragged with sobs. He knew what he was supposed to say, but it would surely break him completely to be struck harder, if there was anything left of physical strength, of hidden resolve, in him. He hadn’t seen any of it in days, just resignation, so perhaps it was already gone. 

“Harder,” he replied, taking a deep breath and holding it, keeping his eyes shut and feeling the tears spill out of them. He tried to recall—how many lashes was a typical flogging? It was too high for him to wager. Perhaps he’d die mid-flogging. It was a painful way to die, but was it not what Christ endured before ultimately being crucified?

An animalistic scream emerged this time and his holding his breath and tightly shutting his mouth hadn’t prevented it. He was already severely weakened from lack of food and it would probably not take too many more lashes for him to collapse on the ground.

Another came—he had bitten his tongue this time. Pain radiated from his back and mouth and he could taste blood.   
He recalled the public floggings. Sometimes they lasted an hour or so. He was very close to collapsing and he’d only had three strokes. Was he always this weak of a man? Or was it all due to starvation?

This time the lash struck him on the buttocks, probably shredding his breeches. He bucked against the tree painfully—why had he chosen a pine tree to stand against? 

_Please end this_ , he mused, rivulets of tears and snot flowing down his face. He could taste the saltiness of them. _Please end this miserable life of mine with a few well-placed strokes. Perhaps to the back of my neck; that would end things abruptly._

His mind pictured a town square, the jeer of peasants and townsfolk all around him, the watchful eye of the Cornish bluebloods observing his every wince. He was always the one observing criminals punished by pillory, flogging, or hanging, from a position of authority. For executions, he’d approach them with his Bible and haughtily request their final prayers, their final calls to God. He’d apparently given his own in the form of his confession. Osborne hung his head, his humiliation too much to bear.

When the tenth stroke landed, again between his shoulders, he arched back and shrieked with pain, and fell heavily on the ground, collapsing onto himself like an article of clothing. 

“Seems like that’s enough for now,” Russell said, and Finn lowered the cat. “Definitely beat a couple of those sins right out o’ him.”

Martin dug around in his jacket and found the food. He strode up to Osborne’s bloody, prostrate form and placed the food items by his face. The three smugglers then strode away, taking one last glance at the fallen vicar before they attended to their smuggled goods.

He was still lying in the same position when they went to leave. 

“Perhaps he’ll die here tonight,” Russell muttered.

“Serves him right,” Finn added. “One last bit of atonement. He do look about done.”

Martin stood thoughtfully staring at him. He wondered if the vicar had indeed chosen to take the harsh punishment as a way to hasten his death. Food was certainly enticing, but death more so for someone in his predicament. He said nothing, his eyes on Ossie’s fresh stripes, as he and his fellow smugglers rowed away.

\----------------------------------------

“I thank you for being patient with me,” Morwenna told Drake, as he stood at the threshold, preparing to leave. He’d come by nearly every day for the last two weeks with firewood and food as he’d promised her. He was respectful of her need to be left alone, but sometimes she would welcome him into the house and they would talk for hours. Sometimes she was even able to manage a small smile, in spite of the nightmare her life had been these past four years.

Drake wanted so badly to hug her, to kiss her, even to touch her hand as she struggled to be happy, but he resisted the urge. Instead, he was careful not to startle her as he found himself appreciating the freedoms Morwenna now had—the freedom to speak to him, to let him into her home, to sit near home. No more disapproving looks from George Warleggan or snippy comments from Elizabeth. They could be together in this way at least with no one judging them.

“I thank you for letting me come in,” Drake told Morwenna, bowing politely.

“I should be the one to thank you, for everything,” she admitted, touching her hair self-consciously and flashing him a ghost of a smile. “You are what gets me through each day.” 

“As you are mine,” he replied. “I cannot wait to be done with my day’s work to come here.”

“I am flattered to hear you say that,” she began, “but surely you were making a life for yourself before you felt obligated to make the daily trip here—”

“It aren’t for obligation’s sake. I love you, ‘Wenna. I always have and I always will.”

“I don’t deserve you,” Morwenna murmured. “I am utterly miserable. You have so much to offer someone—your gifts should not go to waste waiting for me to be the way I was.”

“Ye have suffered, undeservedly so,” he said. He reached out, instinctively touching her hand with his. “But ye were once happy, and ye can be happy again.”

She smiled guardedly at him but did not pull her hand away. It did not hurt her as much as she thought it would, to allow a man to once again brush against her skin. Perhaps Drake was right. Perhaps she could be happy again.


	12. Exodus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the second of the two chapters I am posting today! So if you've been only reading the latest chapter posted, beware that there are two today.

He didn’t know how long he’d remained facedown at his punishment site. All Osborne Whitworth knew was that the entire back of his body was on fire and that whatever strength remained in his already failing body was decimated. He could do nothing but stare dumbly at the strips of salt pork lain by his head, even though they were covered in ants by this point. He was awestruck that his three captors had actually honored their word and left him the food.

With great effort, Ossie attempted to rotate his shoulder to pick up the morsels. He moaned with pain at the realization that the joint was practically frozen now from remaining in such an awkward position for who knew how long.

He could sense that it was day, but it was not the same day as the punishment. Perhaps it was the day afterward, or the day after that. Ants were not only consuming the salt pork, he knew now—he could also feel them walking about in his flogging wounds and the sensation was that of extreme itchiness that could not be quelled.

Eventually he was able to wrench his arm into a position that was he able to grasp the salt pork. He slowly moved the ant-covered meat to his lips and bit a piece off without even removing the offending creatures.

It was the best food he had ever tasted. For a moment, his pain and starvation were gone and his senses were filled with the heavenly aroma of the meat, the delicious saltiness of it, the texture and the flavor and the perfection that it was. He chewed more slowly than he’d ever chewed in his life, sapping every last nugget of joy and contentment out of the foodstuff. The bitterness of ant secretions and the movement of the little buggers on the meat did nothing to mar his satisfaction.

The consumption of the salt pork had given the vicar some long-lost strength. Within minutes, he painfully made his way to his feet and pulled his shirt back over the now-dried blood of the wounds. 

\----------------------------------------------

Osborne stood by the beach, biting into the raw potato as one would an apple as he stared at Cornwall across the water. The potato tasted starchy at first, but when he let it sit on his tongue without further chewing, it became sweet and fulfilling. 

Perhaps when his back wounds had healed, he could teach himself how to swim. The surf was unnervingly calm, so calm that when he stood by the water, he could see his own reflection for the first time in weeks.

Oh, how his body had changed! He could be called normal size now, perhaps even slender. His growing beard had transformed his face into that of his captors. If he were to wear the clothes of a Cornish peasant, he would never be questioned. Gone was his double chin, the swell of his belly bulging out beyond the waistband of his breeches. He looked nothing at all like himself. 

As the sun set, Ossie peered back at the dark trees that made up the majority of the island. _I will sleep on the beach tonight_ , he mused, finally finishing the second potato. He had survived the berries, had survived the flogging. With his strength largely having returned, returning to Cornwall was remotely possible, but possible nonetheless.

_If I do make it back to Cornwall, would it be most expedient to return to Sawle? Will Morwenna and the children be there, or will some other vicar have already moved in? What of George Warleggan’s promised guards?_

_What do they think happened to me? Do they believe me dead or simply missing? Have they had my funeral in absentia?_ He smiled ironically. _Perhaps I am already back at home, buried in the Sawle churchyard._

\-------------------------------

Osborne Whitworth awoke to a voice. A hand shook his shoulder roughly. 

“Wake up, Whitworth,” the voice demanded. He opened to eyes to see an oil lantern, the only source of light anywhere. It was night. Even the moon was hidden from view. There were no stars in the sky-surely it was a cloudy night. A chilly fall breeze accompanied his view of the night world.

“I’m awake,” Osborne groaned, attempting to sit up. “Is that—Martin?”

“Aye,” said Martin. “I’ve a proposal for you.”

“Wh-what is it?”

“In the spirit of penitence, if ye could choose your life’s path, where would it go?”

Osborne shut his eyes briefly, using all his strength to suppress the grin that threatened to spread across his face. He always knew that Martin had the softer heart. Martin had never partaken in violating him in every one of the nearly two dozen times he’d been brutalized and had even told him how to find water. Martin was going to save him!

“Why, back to Sawle to celebrate the mercy and love of Our Lord,” he began, his voice taking on the old pitchy pontificating tone. “To be with my family again—Morwenna—my children, Sarah, Anne, John Conan.”

“That sounds like pure drivel. Lies that you tell yourself,” Martin snarled, startling the vicar. “What do you really want to do?”

He swallowed his words, not having expected to be rebuked. Perhaps he’d misread Martin’s intentions. Any thought of a smile evaporated. 

“I—I just don’t want to be here anymore,” he muttered hopelessly, his shoulders slumping.

“Do ye deserve to die for your sins?”

Osborne blinked several times, alarmed to be put on the spot in such a way with the man who’d never directly participated in harassing and attacking him. The large man loomed over him menacingly, and a chill ran up his spine.

The mood of this conversation had turned to despair. Martin had gotten his hopes up, to let them fall into a pit of blackness. 

“Probably,” the vicar murmured, looking down at the ground. “If it is your intent to end my life tonight, please be swift about it.”

He waited for what seemed like a lifetime for Martin to reply. In the darkness of the night, he didn’t notice the man to be holding a rifle or large knife or such implement, but then again, the threadbare jackets his captors always wore seemed to hide what they carried very well.

“So if ye could, would ye choose death or returning to your wife in Sawle?”

Was he giving him a choice in the matter? Osborne replied instantly.

“Sawle, without question.”

“Here’s the deal then,” Martin explained. “I vow to take ye from here, back to Sawle.”

Osborne’s breath caught in his throat as he gaped at the dimly-lit man before him, and he had to force himself to say something.

“Now?”

“Aye.”

“What about the others?” the vicar asked. “Finn and Russell. Do they—”

“They do not know.”

“I always _knew_ you to be more honorable than your compatriots!” Osborne blurted, feeling the urge to hug this man but instead showering him with praise. “Enjoying the act of sodomy in and of itself is grounds for eternal damnation and society’s perspective of it is no better. You are above that, and for that, both God and I bless you.”

“I see,” Martin said, making an interesting face in light of what he’d been told. “Hmph. So I’ve one condition—ye must wear shackles on your wrists so I can call ye my prisoner if I’m noticed by the others. There may be other times ye may need to wear a hood over your face. agree?”

So he was to be shackled. Could he not just change into the stained brown clothing of a peasant and simply blend in with the rest of them? He was now a normal albeit slender size and he had facial hair to boot. He wasn’t about to argue this stipulation, however. He would give Martin no reason to change his mind.

“I agree.”

“I’ve got to return to the boat to get the shackles and such. Remain here for the time being.”

Osborne could only nod in reply, as Martin turned around to prepare for their departure.

He watched in disbelief, his mind reeling from his sudden reversal in fortune, as the large man strode across the beach and into the dark foamy waters. He would be leaving this place! Tears filled his eyes and he began hyperventilating, his heart thudding in his chest.

What joy he felt! What amazing, unbounding joy! He would be going home! He would be leaving this godforsaken spit of land and leave behind the torturous existence it had afforded him. No more rapes! No more starving to death! No more sleep interrupted by bats! No more fear!

He painfully pulled himself to a standing position and attempted to observe Martin’s movements in the surf.

Far off in the distance, undetectable in the night, were buildings he’d be standing right next to very soon. No longer would he be a barefoot filthy heathen, urinating, bathing, and sleeping outdoors.

He would be returning home to his family, to civilization, to his job as a vicar. But had his family moved away in the time he’d been gone? Had they moved on? Surely the nearly two months he’d been here wouldn’t have given Morwenna enough time to get remarried, would it?

Ossie’s thoughts drifted from pure elation into cynicism. 

If nothing else, he would get to see his children and his mother. Surely Lady Whitworth would be happy to see her only child and know that he was alive and home again.

His thoughts darkened yet again, turning to the source of the unconventional punishment he’d had. Who had initiated it? Morwenna? Morwenna’s mother? The trio of smugglers were privy to the some of the most intimate details of his life with Morwenna. How would he behave around the woman who’d surely arranged to have him raped, marooned, and starved for forty days? 

How would he indeed. He certainly would never expect marital relations with her again, lest she arrange another punishment with her three friends. But if she had initiated this, perhaps she herself should be punished for condemning her own husband to such horrific treatment. How could that be arranged, unbeknownst to apparently clever Morwenna and her ruthless trio of smugglers?

But then again, he _had_ been very much at fault. Perhaps it was a fitting punishment, all that he had gone through. Perhaps now he and his wife were even. He’d essentially been treated to a shortened window—albeit more extreme—of Morwenna’s everyday life: awaiting the return of her spouse home from a pious job as a man of God, only for him to mercilessly violate her night after night. She had also gone off food since being married to him, her skin becoming paler and thinner, almost like paper. Her dark, intense eyes had lost their spark. Her voice had grown quieter and quieter until it had become almost inaudible. She had slowly ceased to exist, except for his nightly pleasure. Similarly, he had ceased to exist for everyone except his captors. The parallels were undeniable.

The experience had certainly changed him—it had massively altered his appearance, for one. It had changed his libido. In his month or so of being marooned, he’d not craved sexual relations in any form, for the first time in his adult life. In fact, thinking about any form of it brought him back to being the victim of it, being held down, reprimanded, stripped of all dignity. He thought of the internal pain and shame of the assaults. Could he still be a vicar when he returned? Did he still wish to be one? He had been degraded, repeatedly—sodomized by men in his bed, on a rock, over a log. Not only did he look filthy, but he felt filthy as well. 

All of his thoughts abruptly ended when he saw Martin approaching, carrying some clothing and a rather hefty set of shackles. Martin took his place beside him and Osborne could really perceive their difference in height. Martin easily towered over him by a half a foot or more.

Suddenly he was aware of Martin’s hand holding out his new clothing—a jacket similar to the ones his captors wore, as well as breeches and a shirt.

“Put these on.” 

Osborne took the clothes and swallowed. Should he excuse himself for privacy? Martin had already seen all of him—perhaps attempting to conceal his body would get him reprimanded. 

He shoved the clothing between his legs and removed his torn, filthy shirt.

Martin said nothing as he slipped the new shirt and jacket on. It was the breeches that worried him, and he must have hesitated for a moment too long.

“Get to it then,” Martin grumbled. “We haven’t got all night.”

“Perhaps I should change them in the boat, so as not to get them wet,” Osborne indicated, peering off briefly at the boat anchored several yards off-shore.

“Ye deserve to have wet clothes. Get to it.”

“Right,” Osborne replied disappointedly, attempting to smile but failing miserably. He removed his old breeches as quickly as he could while standing in the sand on one foot, and almost fell—Martin caught him with a strong hand.

He was unable to even look at the man who was supposedly going to help him. Instead, he slipped the breeches on wordlessly.

Martin held the shackles expectantly. 

Burying any pride remaining in himself, Osborne wordlessly held out both of his hands to his new captor in preparation to be shackled. The vicar watched anxiously as the restraints clicked around his wrists. He sighed as he took in the sight of the heavy chains. He was no different than a common smuggler or thief now. It was as if his old life in privilege and wealth had been a mere dream, and he’d just awoken to his reality.


	13. Back to Cornwall

CHAPTER 13

The coldness of the water soaked into his new breeches, making them cling to his legs. His feet were still bare and he acutely felt the pain from stepping on each sharp stone underfoot. It was exceedingly difficult to walk through the approaching dark waves and he could feel Martin’s strong grip latched onto the back of his shirt, shoving him forward through the water. 

As they approached the boat, the shoreline dropped down sharply under their feet. Martin’s height meant that the water was only at mid-thigh level on his legs, but the water was at Osborne’s waist now. The salt stung his lash wounds and his breeches were so waterlogged that he could scarcely shuffle one foot in front of the other in the rapidly deepening water.

What if he were to fall? The shackles wouldn’t allow him to move his hands independently and he’d drown. Panic began to set in. The involuntary shaking racking his body now was due to both the icy coldness of the water and the adrenaline coursing through his veins.

Martin and Osborne soon arrived at the boat, the waves making Osborne sway and lose his footing. The water around them was now at Osborne’s chest height. Osborne touched the vessel, the rim of which floated well above the height of his head. The rowboat was anchored much further out to shore than he’d ever realized. He’d often wondered these last forty days if he should have attempted to sneak out to the boat during the trio’s smuggling activities. Looking at the rowboat now looming in front of his face, he realized it would have been hopeless. Drowning would have been certain.

Martin nodded at him. Instead, he flashed Martin a confused look.

“Well, get in,” Martin said.

“You can’t be serious,” he sputtered. “I can’t lift myself that high.”

“Then you can stay here and drown,” Martin replied matter-of-factly. With a single movement of his large muscular arms, Martin pulled his own massive body onto the boat and was soon sitting aboard the vessel, peering down at Osborne with disgust. The boat had nearly capsized as the large man had jumped aboard, and the resulting waves from this disturbance made Osborne yell out and fall backward into the sea.

The dark murky waves washed over Osborne’s face as he realized he’d gone underwater and he thrashed around like a dying bird, unable to tell where the sky was in the darkness of night. Salt flooded his senses. He flailed around in the murky darkness, striking his bare foot on something hard and metal—the anchor! He reached out blindly with his shackled hands, grabbing the anchor chain. Shifting his arms upward, he felt the night air once again with his hands and then with his face. He took a large breath of the chilly air and realized he’d not drowned.

“You’re pitiful,” Martin remarked disappointedly. “Now ye’ll probably die from exposure. Are ye coming or not?”

“M-my hands—” Osborne began, his teeth chattering, entire body quaking, “—they are shackled and I—”

“Ye need to figure it out before I pull up the anchor,” Martin commented. “’Tis your choice to leave here—either do it or don’t.” With that, Martin leaned forward and grabbed the chain that held the anchor. He began pulling it and the boat very shortly became mobile.

Osborne used all his strength to throw his shackled hands over the gunwale of the boat. He reached around inside the vessel, hoping to grab onto something that he could use to support his weight. The boat floated too high above him and the gunwale of the boat was the only thing he could manage to hold onto.

His fingers turning white, he dug his long fingernails into the wood of the gunwale as he frantically kicked his waterlogged legs in the water, attempting to propel himself into the small vessel. He no longer carried extra weight on his body and Martin was an exceptionally tall, muscular man and so his efforts did not even seem to affect the balance of the boat. Even so, the boat began to drift, now no longer anchored to the ocean floor, as Osborne gritted his teeth tightly and strained as he used the last bits of strength to get his leg onto the boat. Once that was done, he was able to clamber in.

He was freezing cold and soaking wet as he shivered violently in the night. He could now see that a pair of boots lay on the bottom of the boat. Were they for him? He wouldn’t dare reach for them unless instructed to by Martin.

“Put the boots on,” Martin instructed, indicating what he’d just been staring at. “There’s a blanket under the seat there.”

 _Why in God’s name didn’t he let me change into dry clothes on the boat?_ Osborne’s old clothing lay in the sand, dirty and torn but dry. Perhaps Martin was trying to play a game with fate, to see if his captive would even make it back alive.

Once he’d slipped the boots on and found the blanket, Osborne felt even colder than before. His teeth chattered continually and his entire body shook, threatening to drain every last ounce of food energy he’d taken in.

“We will head to Sawle directly,” Martin commented, his powerful arms operating the oars with machine-like precision. “Probably shortly before dawn, we’ll arrive.”

“How f-far are w-we from Sawle?” Osborne asked. He desperately wanted to know where he’d been all this time. He’d not recalled any of his travels to the island and so this place could presumably be anywhere in the English Channel.

“You are not privy to that information.”

The vicar recoiled from the sharp quip and said no more. He instead focused his attention on the inside of the boat. Another two sets of shackles lie on the bottom of the boat. A pistol lie next to what appeared to be a blood-stained shirt. A riding crop lie next to several musket balls. He looked at his own shackles. Large, heavy black cuffs encircled his wrists, attached with a rusted black chain. Were his captors self-appointed avengers, determined to teach the unrepentant sinners of Cornwall a lesson? They had knowledge of and apparently exclusive access to at least one uninhabited island and they had several sets of restraints that they apparently used.

Were there other vicars and bankers and bad husbands out there, waiting on islands for their comeuppance from this trio? He would never know.

“When we get closer to land, ye’ll have to put this sack over your head,” Martin said, throwing him a dark-colored sack marred with some kind of body fluid stain. He began rowing again. “Won’t be too long now.”

Osborne held the fabric in his hands and made a face of disgust. Not only did it look dirty, but it smelled terrible.

“Why?”

“I can throw you overboard here instead, if ye’d prefer,” Martin said with a languid shrug.

“No—”

“That’s what I thought.”

\---------------------------------------

He felt the hot neck of the horse beneath his shackled hands and his breathing quickened beneath the filthy sack. Martin had effortlessly lifted him onto the horse and he could now feel his captor/savior mounting the horse behind him, Martin’s forearms occasionally brushing up against his sides as he controlled the reins. His clothes were still soaked along with the blanket and things would only get worse. If Martin pushed the horse to gallop, the ensuing wind would chill him to the bone. 

It was then that Osborne lifted his shackled hands, to adjust the sack, that he heard Martin speak.

“Ye’ll take that off when I say ye can.”

“I was just adjusting—”

“Don’ touch it.”

His fantasy of smiling with his captor and idly chatting about the recklessness of Russell and Finn had long disappeared. He blinked his eyes under the stifling stench of the sack, utterly terrified. His world was pitch black and existed inside the confines of the reeking cloth. Right now, he was completely at the mercy of Martin. If Martin wished to end him in any way, he’d have no way to defend himself, no way to catch his fall or even to see his last sights. Were they really returning to Sawle? He had no sense of where he was, only the sounds of the horse moving below him, the occasional hooting of an owl or the buzzing of some night insect.

He could tell they were traveling in a circle, a small circle, at that. He’d been gritting his teeth so hard that his jaw ached, the sack still obscuring any kind of vision, and yet he’d been immediately aware of the dramatic right turn the horse had taken, continuing it even now.

He couldn’t say a thing about this development. Surely Martin was directing the horse to move in this way. Perhaps this was another test of his submissiveness. This time, he decided to remain silent, jaw tightly clamped, in an attempt to suppress the shivers that racked his body.

All of a sudden, the sack was yanked off of his head. Cool night air struck his face and his cold wet hair and induced a strong shudder in him. He cringed at the involuntary movement his body made, waiting for another jab from Martin. When the jab didn’t come, he allowed his eyes to survey the land around them. 

It was much like the cliffs by Nampara, with brown grasses blowing in the wind. He could smell the salty sea breeze but couldn’t see the ocean. There was no way of knowing to which side of the horse the sea was—perhaps in the day it was possible but not now. No trees could be seen, just grassy highlands and a large starless sky. The path the horse trod was well-traveled and tamped down well. It was also a rather wide path. 

He opened his eyes widely to search for the mines. Perhaps he’d see Wheal Leisure or Wheal Grace and would know exactly where he was. Nothing seemed familiar and yet he could sense that he was in Cornwall again.

They continued on their way for an hour more, as the sky completely blackened and rain began to fall. It had become impossible to see but Martin pushed his horse further. The animal moved slowly and unsteadily along the bumpy path. The blackness was so all-encompassing that Osborne could not even see the horse’s mane right in front of him.

“I must inform ye that if your wife do not take ‘ee back, that ye will return to the island,” Martin suddenly blurted, his deep voice startling Osborne. 

The vicar gasped, his mouth suddenly drier than ever. So this was a mere tease of what his life could have been. No way would she take him back. She loathed him with all her being. He would die alone on the island. 

“We may as well turn around now then,” Osborne muttered hopelessly, a sad smile on his face. “I can assure you that Morwenna will not forgive me. Was it not, in fact, under her very order, that I was brought here?”

“She doesn’t have to forgive ‘ee,” Martin said, “just to allow ‘ee back into Sawle. If she then decides she can’t forgive ‘ee, then—”

“Then I go back to await death, I assume.” Osborne blurted. He waited for the strike to the back of the head and when it didn’t come, he sighed.

“Ye didn’t let me finish,” Martin answered. “As I was sayin’—”

“So let me understand this correctly,” Osborne interrupted, “What you’re telling me is that my life is entirely dependent upon the ability of my _wife_ to forgive, and not upon my own atonement these past forty days.”

“If she don’ forgive ye, that’s her right. She will not be forced to forgive, if she can’t.”

“But what does that mean for me? If she can’t forgive me?”

“Treat her kindly, express regret for your past behavior, and ye shouldn’t have a problem.” The vicar could almost hear Martin shrugging in his usual way.

“You don’t know my wife,” Osborne huffed. “She is beyond that. It will infuriate her to know I am still alive.” Now Osborne was angry and he snarled as the words flew from his mouth like spit. “She is vindictive, an utterly spiteful woman.”

An unnerving silence followed his outburst. His jaw dropped and his anger instantly dissipated, replaced by dread. Surely he’d be killed now. His words had gone against all that he had been forced to acknowledge these past forty days—that _he_ alone was the wrongdoer. He cringed, awaiting the inevitable backlash. 

Martin was dead silent behind him. Osborne could now hear something—the thudding of his heart in his chest, in his ears.   
“I’m sorry,” he said, swallowing loudly. “I misspoke.”

He could have said much more—for one, that he still resented Morwenna for arranging this punishment and that his outburst reflected that. He could have reminded Martin of his wife’s threats against John Conan, which hadn’t gone well the first time. He could have tried to justify his anger. Instead he sat, awaiting the gunshot or blade to split him open, to end his existence once and for all.


	14. Whistle-Stop

Following Osborne’s outburst and ensuing apology, his captor Martin remained silent behind him on the horse.

Osborne could hear his own breathing increasing in pace and depth, his heart hammering in his ears. The blackness that enveloped him further increased his fear. Would he even be able to hear Martin replying to him?

“…terribly sorry,” he repeated, hoping Martin would say something, anything. All the while he stared straight ahead, breathing through his teeth and waiting for the repercussions.

The horse continued on for another mile or so, Martin remaining silent and unmoving behind him. It had started to rain and the only thing that could be heard was the tiny drops landing on Osborne and his clothing. Nothing from Martin. Osborne couldn’t take it anymore.

“Why aren’t you saying anything?!” he asked the man behind him, turning around slightly but still unable to see him. Silence met him. He had to know what consequence was waiting—his captors ensured that every one of his outbursts and attempts at resistance had had a consequence. He would not be brought into view of his grand estate in Sawle only to be perhaps hog-tied and thrown back on the horse to return to his island fate. If he was to suffer greatly for his impetuous words, he should know the nature of the suffering now.

This time Osborne used his shackled hands to grab the reins and abruptly stop the horse. He turned his upper body to face Martin, whose face was wholly unreadable.

“Say something!” he demanded, his voice a mixture of impatience and dread.

“Fine,” Martin replied. Martin was staring him down, challenging him with his eyes. The burly man leaned back then, crossing his arms. 

“I know I am to be punished for my words, sooner or later,” Osborne explained. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather take my punishment now.”

“Right. Good idea,” Martin said, nodding. “I suppose that’s fair. Hand me the reins.”

Osborne blanched, his eyes going wide.

“Wh-why?” he cried. “Where are we going?”

“Back to the island. ‘Tis clear to me that nothing these last forty days has shown ‘ee the error of your ways. I suppose it best to turn around now, rather than turn around in Truro with you bleatin’ like a sheep in front of all your acquaintances.”

“Please,” Osborne said, “not that. Anything but that.”

“I’m not inclined t’ rape and o’ course sodomy—what ye perceive to be the worst sin,” Martin replied. 

“Praise the Lord,” Osborne muttered sarcastically. He had hated the isolation nearly as much as the assaults. Could he not think of an alternative to dying alone?

“What about a flogging?” Osborne suggested. “As before?”

“Are ye suggesting I flog thee? There not be a tree for miles with which to use.”

“Do you not carry anything on your person? I seem to recall seeing many… objects in the boat.”

“Ah, right—ye may be right. Let me see.”

With that, Martin dismounted the horse and opened its saddlebag to search. Osborne sat upon the horse hearing Martin attempt to look through his possessions in the dark. Martin was off the horse and he was right at the reins. He was a skilled equestrian and he could control this horse, he was sure of it. He sat impatiently, watching Martin dig through the saddlebag for something to hurt him with, his urge to take the reins and sprint away on the horse growing stronger by the moment.

Should he flee from Martin? Would Martin honor his word, that he would be returned to Sawle? He knew that a flogging was imminent, but if an implement wasn’t found, then what?

He knew the answer: he would be returned to the island and he would die there.

Suddenly, Osborne reached forward and grabbed the reins. Before Martin could do anything, he dug his heels into the horse and the horse bolted away in a fast gallop with him on it. 

\---------------------------------------

The chilly night wind blew through his damp hair but he no longer felt cold. Instead, he felt elated. Perhaps he could escape his captors for good. His mind raced with new possibilities: he’d find the nearest settlement and would remain there under a pseudonym and hide out until he felt Martin was no longer searching for him. He’d gorge himself on food and drink and recover his bodily strength. He’d never return to Sawle or Truro, for that matter—his captors would find him in a moment if he returned. Perhaps he could find work in a large city—London, perhaps. He’d disappear and start his life anew. This was the first night of the rest of his new life.

It was the first glimpse of true hope he’d experienced in more than a month. He would get away and start over. His appearance had been so completely altered that he could blend in with the townsfolk of a larger city outside of Cornwall. He could leave his beard to grow for now and find some work and a place to live.  
The rain that had begun to fall during their trip now struck him like tiny knives in his face and eyes but he did not mind. The combination of the rain and the utter darkness outside made it impossible to see and it also greatly slowed the horse below him. 

The horse slowed to a canter, chuffing as its ears scanned the vast empty plains around it. He could feel the animal starting to circle again. The moon and stars were hidden from view and it was pitch black. Perhaps there was a lantern somewhere in the saddlebag. Martin had not been using anything to light the way, but it made no sense to have no light source for these types of trips. Perhaps he could stop for a moment and feel around for a torch or a lantern to aid him on his journey. He pulled on the reins and halted the horse, sighing with exasperation. In the dark, Martin would never find him. It was as if he was hidden in plain view, the perfect time to see what provisions were available.

There came an exceptionally loud whistle. The horse’s ears pricked backward at the sound and it promptly turned toward the sound. _No, no, no_. Osborne jerked the reins, trying to direct his horse back a different way. He dug his heels into the belly of the horse in an attempt to make it sprint away from the sound.

The whistle happened again.

How had his hope been stolen so viciously, so quickly, from him? Panic filled him and he could hear his heart thudding in his chest as the horse began to trot back towards the whistle. He jerked the reins again and kicked the horse, but it began to gallop in the same direction.

Now his horse was galloping back from whence they came. He would surely die now. Should he fall from the horse? They were probably 200 yards away from Martin at this point, he’d no idea. The pouring rain and darkness of a moonless night made it impossible to see his captor from across the open field. Maybe he could find a ditch and lie in it until he was certain Martin was gone.

The horse was running far too fast for him to jump off. Now he grabbed the reins and pulled them in an attempt to stop the horse. Instead, it reared up, neighing and bucking its head about. 

Osborne clutched the reins in white-knuckled terror, his life flashing back to the night he was taken, the night he had yet not been able to recall. He had fallen off his horse then and it had rendered him unconscious.

He held onto the horse’s reins for dear life as it finally settled down. The rain was still pouring on them, dumping ice cold water on the pair. A lightning bolt lit up the sky briefly. In that brief moment, Osborne could see the figure now moving with purpose across the field, dark and foreboding. Martin was coming to get him. Thunder boomed in the sky, making the horse whinny loudly, informing his captor again of his very close proximity. Surely he’d greatly angered him with his actions, and now he was going to pay for it, most likely with his life.

Martin whistled again and the horse continued toward him at a trot. In the brief flash of lightning, his captor was a demon awaiting him, a shadow whose human features were blurred by the rain and the darkness. With certain death awaiting him now some 50 yards away, Osborne closed his eyes, let go of the reins, and gave up, allowing himself to fall off the horse sideways.

\---------------------------------------

The cold chill running through him was the first thing he’d felt upon regaining consciousness, followed by a generalized soreness that radiated from his lower back up to his shoulders. He was not on a horse but he was not on wet soggy ground either. Instantly he was disappointed at the outcome. He recalled his mad, wild attempt at freedom, at Martin’s incredibly loud horse whistle that inevitably drew them back. He’d attempted to take control of his fate by purposely falling off the horse, but he had failed. Where was he? 

He opened his eyes tentatively. It was no longer dark and rainy—instead, he appeared to be in some kind of windowless room. He had been propped up against a wall, his body leaning heavily on damp stone. His hands were still shackled in front of him. The room reeked of sweat and was acrid and pungent and he could see shackles hanging from the walls around him. The chamber was lit solely by a circle of candles suspended by the ceiling in the center of the room, casting a strange shadow on a large square platform below it. The platform appeared to be made of stone and stood expectantly in the center of the room, with chains bolted to the floor on each side of it. He seemed to be in some kind of prison, but there were no sounds of other imprisoned, only an inconsistent dripping sound originating from the low ceiling.

He lifted his shackled arms to touch his face, which seemed to be colder than it had been these past several weeks. He felt the smoothness of his skin, the lack of stubble. Someone had shaved him. Returning to his former civilized look was a comfort, but the beard had afforded him some warmth and more importantly, a disguise.

Chills racked his body, making his teeth chatter and his legs and arms move involuntarily. Sweat dripped down his temples. He was surely ill.

“Whitworth,” a voice spoke. He immediately recognized it as Martin’s. The burly man stepped out of the shadows, his face determined.

“Where am I?” Osborne blurted. This was no time for humility or apologies. It would make no difference now in his fate.

“My associates’ dungeon,” Martin replied. “’Twas a good time for you to pass out. Made the trip here much faster.”

“So you had no intention of taking me home?”

“I did intend on that, based on your obedience and remorse, but ye showed none of that. Rather, defiance.” He shrugged. “‘Twas thought this visit could be avoided, but no matter.”

The word visit implied a temporary stay--perhaps whatever this would be would be over soon. Osborne touched his face again, his impeccably shaved upper lip and jaw.

“Why have I been… shaved?”

“I do believe it easier to slap a clean-shaven face.”

 _What was that supposed to mean?_ He pondered the thought, but it was more important to figure out where he was.

“Are we still on the mainland?”

“What do it matter?” Martin said with a sneer. “Ye know where ye’re to go next.”

Osborne swallowed the hard fact but displayed no sorrow. He had expected that his escape attempt, if thwarted, would render a happy ending null and void, and he had been correct.

“Why not finish the job while I was unconscious?” he replied, narrowing his eyes at his captor. “You could have ended my life in any way you saw fit.”

“Ye’ve not learned a thing from forty days with we men. Mayhap it’s time a woman humiliated thee. Stand up.”

Osborne stood up as directed, using the stone wall to support his weakened body. His back and right shoulder ached rather sharply now—he must have landed on that side. He was embarrassed at how his body still shook—it was not intentional. 

“Let me first begin by saying I consider you to be a sensible man, a man who wouldn’t—”

He was cut off by Martin, who shushed him with a thrust of the arm and his own statement.

“Did ye not hear me? I won’t be doin’ the humiliatin’ of ‘ee. That’ll be Senara.”

Osborne’s breath caught in his throat and his eyebrows raised. He was thoroughly unnerved by the unexpected notion of it, having apparently missed its implications the first time Martin had said it. His eyes peered around the dungeon suspiciously and saw nothing but Martin. 

“A w-woman?” he muttered, swallowing. 

“Aye, but in body only. A husband much like yourself turned her into who she be today. Ye call Morwenna vindictive—ye won’t be sayin’ that again, I promise ye that.”

“Are you saying that a woman will be humiliating me?” the vicar replied. “How on earth is she to do that?”

“However it please her. Don’t ye raise a hand to her, don’t ye so much as resist her, or ye’ll be sorry.”

“Ah, so I must be careful not to hurt her… or what? I will be returned to the island?” Osborne replied, now smiling. His trepidation was now gone, replaced with a boastful grin and a surge of excitement. Martin did not return his smile.

“I’m warnin’ ‘ee.”


	15. Senara

The door opened and there Senara stood. She was rather tall for a woman and yet slender, her long blond hair pulled back off of her face. Strangely enough, she wore men’s clothing—a tricorn hat, breeches, a shirt, a waistcoat, and even tall riding boots. Her face was hard and coarse and heavily lined, but she was a woman and she was eyeing him up unabashedly. In spite of Senara being an older woman and not nearly as attractive as his usual interests, Osborne’s heart leapt in his chest much as it had with his first encounter with Rowella. He could feel his shackled hands sweating now and his breaths deepening. How was it that certain women could induce such a response in him?

“This be him?” she asked Martin, her posture haughty, confident, her fists planted firmly on her hips. Her voice came out higher and more feminine than he’d expected. Even so, she didn’t seem all that impressed with him as he stood against the wall in shackles, his clothing covered in mud and his hair plastered to his head. “I thought ye said he was fat.”

“’Tis forty days of starvation that do hollow ‘im out,” Martin responded. 

“Aye, I’ll have to be a might careful with him then. Recall Arthek?”

“I do. Here—lemme unshackle him for ‘ee.”

Martin proceeded to remove Osborne’s shackles as Osborne watched with suspicion. What would be happening here today? The dread he felt about his supposed humiliation was not the same kind of dread he felt when his captors returned to the island. This dread was intermixed with… anticipation?

“I trust ye’ll want to get to it then,” Martin said with a bow. 

Senara nodded resolutely and moved to the side as Martin squeezed past her. The burly man shut the door and Osborne was left alone with the woman. In his previous state of being, he would have outweighed her by at least fifty pounds. He brazenly eyed her up, considering her size in relation to his own reduced size. When his eyes met hers, she was glaring angrily at him.

“I hear ye to be a wife raper,” she began, clenching her jaw. She strode toward him aggressively and he took a step back, the palms of his freed hands now resting on the stone wall behind him. He felt sweaty, disheveled, completely unprepared for whatever was to happen. He attempted to set his jaw, to hide the fact that his teeth were still chattering.

Now she was within reaching distance of him. He hadn’t yet replied, his eyes still locked on hers and his mouth dry as bone. She was shorter than he was and he felt as if he should have the upper hand, but yet didn’t. He licked his lips in an attempt to moisten them, wholly unable to speak. He raised his chin, keeping his eyes on hers and waiting. 

The slap landed hard on his face, eliciting a yelp from him as he stumbled to the side, his hands moving from the wall to his hot skin.

It was true what Martin said—it was more painful to be slapped when clean-shaven.

“Did ye rape yer wife?” she questioned him, her face lingering even closer to his own. His hands fell back to his sides. Now his eyes could not meet hers, and he allowed himself to peer around the room, at the floor, at the bosom hidden under the menswear—

Another slap, this time on the other cheek and twice as hard. He bellowed when struck, his eyes watering as he staggered sideways, clutching his face.

“I asked ye a question. If ye do choose not to answer, I’ll have to—”

“Yes,” he replied quietly, his eyes on the floor. “I did.”

“How many times?” 

Osborne’s eyes met hers and then quickly fell. Her aggressive posturing and stance made him extremely uneasy, and her questions made him feel nauseous to boot. For whatever reason, he couldn’t take his eyes off of her. 

“I would say... every time,” he replied, swallowing. 

A third slap across the face, with a sound that seemed to echo off of the stone walls of his new prison. Now his eyes were indeed watering and he was embarrassed. 

“Why did you do that?” he said, frowning deeply and rubbing his eyes with a sleeve. “I answered your question.”

“I heard that ye were headin’ back home all contrite an’ such when ye decided to make a run for it. That right?” Senara remarked, seemingly amused with her own statement. He could see from her smile that one of her teeth was blackened. If she continued to speak, he mused, his initial curiosity about her would dwindle to nothing.

“That’s correct,” he answered.

“Why? Do ye hate her that much?”

“No,” he responded. His eyes began wandering now. The questioning was unnerving him. This was no place for a woman, demanding a man answer her!

“Then why?”

His apprehension vanished and he stood firm, his eyes again able to meet hers.

“I don’t understand why I need to be questioned like this. Did Martin not adequately explain to you what happened?”

Senara’s face darkened and any curiosity in her expression disappeared, replaced with contempt.

“I see,” she replied with a sneer. “I’m makin’ ‘ee squirm. Ye’re not used to answerin’ to a woman, I reckon. That don’t mean ye aren’t expected to.”

Osborne was utterly fed up with the line of questioning and did not hide his dismissive body language. Any interest in her that had been piqued at his first seeing her was gone, replaced with irritation.

“And what will happen if I choose not to?”

“Then ye’ll be punished accordingly. I will make ‘ee cry like ye’ve ne’er cried before.”

“But only if I don’t raise a hand to you, correct?” he said smilingly. “I imagine it’s rather easy to be in control when your victim has been previously threatened by a _man_ not to harm you.”

He felt rather smug at the statement. Perhaps he could unnerve this woman just as much as she’d attempted to unnerve him.

Instead of the reaction he’d expected, Senara began to laugh. She laughed loudly, so loudly that she had to place her hands on her knees to let out the bubbling of humor inside of her. Her laugh was obnoxious and completely unwarranted.

“Ye’ve certainly not heard of me or else ye’d understand ‘is meaning. Go ahead—do raise a hand to me, I dare ‘ee. Didn’ realize ye wanted me to break ye so soon.”

“Break me?” he replied. “I’ve already been broken, in more ways than one. Starved, beaten…. violated, repeatedly. I can’t imagine you to be in any way similar to those _sodomites_.”

“I in fact am oftentimes the decider and implementer o’ the sentences ‘round these parts, sentences for those too high-born or cautious in their crimes to be brought before the eyes of the law.”

“So this is some kind of self-made justice system designed to punish the rich?” Osborne shot back. “I’ll have you know that I in fact have very little money. I was certainly born into a life of privilege but I am naught but a simple vicar now with a small stipend to my name.”

“But with rather unlawful connections to the high-ups,” Senara interjected. “We do know ye use your lowly position to aid your wealthy compatriots.”

“Ah,” he began, gaining confidence and his old air of self-importance. “So I’m here because of my association with George Warleggan, I presume? Not all this _poor wife_ drivel, after all? Ah. Until now, I had missed the rather obvious political undertow of this whole reckoning.”

“In fact, this system is merely a simple payment system for sins, and ye’ve a good deal to pay for,” Senara replied, exposing her unfortunate teeth in a smile. 

“Did you not hear me before?” he retorted. “I’ve been paying for them for forty days now.”

“And yet, here ye are, after speaking ill o’ your wife and running away.”

“My wife surely set this whole thing up. Why should I not resent her,” he growled. “I have been tortured. I’ve been—”

“I know all about it. Those three boys you’ve become so familiar with these past forty days work for me.”

Osborne froze, his eyes widening. How did this woman get the knowledge about him? Was she a friend of the Chynoweths? These past forty days, he’d pictured Morwenna or her mother hiring the three men. His idea of how all this had come about was shattered, and he was confused.

“Who told _you?_ ” he said. “How do _you_ know what I’ve done?”

“That’s none of your concern,” she said, grinning. She crossed her arms now, staring him down confidently. He could feel his head shrinking down between his now-bony shoulders.

“Is it money you want?” he babbled, unnerved at this mere woman’s alleged power. “Because I am sure that—”

“Nah,” she interjected. “Just a righteous change in ‘ee. Seems we have quite a bit o’ work to do to get ‘ee there. Now,” she said, clapping her hands together, her eyes locking on his. “Take off your clothes.”

Unlike their earlier exchanges that had delved into a debate, this command threw Osborne off entirely. His jaw dropped and could only gape at her, a chill shooting down his back and radiating into arms and legs both. 

“No,” he said simply, accompanied by a subtle shake of the head. 

There came a knife from the back of her breeches, a rather sharp knife with a crimson tinge to its edge. His eyes moved to it, then back to her face.

“Ah,” she said, her smile increasing in width and intensity. “So it begin.”

\----------------------------

Osborne’s eyes darted around the room, never straying too far from the edge of the knife. Eventually he stopped glancing about and looked square at Senara, a lump forming in his throat.

“Just get it over with.”

“What?”

“Killing me. Isn’t that what you are threatening?”

“Oh, no, I am to castrate ‘ee if ye don’t listen.” was her reply.

He could not so much as react before she thrust her knife towards his groin. He attempted to deflect it with his hand, a mistake.  
A sharp pain coursed through his hand and he jerked the limb back, soon aware that he’d suffered quite a slice wound from her knife. Blood poured from his right hand—it felt like his entire hand had caught on fire. He could only gape at it stupidly, his eyebrows raising both with fear and shock at the immediate development. He attempted to wipe away the blood with his other hand, only to cover both his hands in blood. It was then that he wiped both of his hands off on his now bloody breeches. Osborne lifted his head again to see that Senara was grinning triumphantly.

“Clothes _off_ ,” she commanded again, her smile instantly disappearing.

He blinked several times in a row and considered what to do. He could not fathom being castrated. Senara didn’t seem to be reluctant to use her weapon. The vicar had always used biblical quotes and threats of violence to get Morwenna to listen. But similarly, when she refused him and threatened him in kind, he’d retreated immediately. This woman was far more dangerous than Morwenna ever could be.

First, he removed his shirt and after a moment, his boots and then his breeches. His hands immediately moved to protect his modesty. He stood before this fully-clothed woman stark naked in the dank room and visibly shivered, his eyes avoiding her gaze completely, rather, concentrating alternately on the dripping ceiling and the chains along the walls.

Without saying another word, Senara stuck her fingers in her mouth and whistled as she returned to Osborne Whitworth. The door that Martin had departed from opened, and five women walked in.

These women, unlike Senara and her penchant for cross-dressing, did not betray their sex: they wore blouses and petticoats and ruffled dresses and appeared as any normal woman of Truro or any small town would. However, over their eyes they wore masquerade masks, which covered their upper faces with jewels and feathers and obscured their identities. Not only had they hid their faces, but they remained as silent as the grave, striding in single-file and lining up against the wall, eventually stopping to face him and Senara. Some of the women seemed familiar to him, but he wasn’t certain how. Was he even in Truro? These could be miner’s wives, blacksmith’s wives, high society ladies, prostitutes. He'd no idea.

A chill shot through Osborne’s body at the thought that one or more of these women might recognize him, despite his extreme weight loss. He was naked and exposed, with six women—five of them masked—staring at him. In spite of his fear, a conflicting feeling began to surge through his body, causing an unwelcome tingling in his nether regions. Suddenly aware of his bodily response, his hands obstinately remained in place, face rapidly reddening with the realization of what was happening to him. Had he no control over his body whatsoever?

“Who are those women?” he blurted, hoping to divert the subject while he attempted to regain control of his bodily functions. “What is this?”

Had polite, modest society been a mere dream to him? The fact that these women of unknown origin and birth would be seeing such scandalous views was vexing to him. He was a vicar of high birth and they were voluntarily looking at his nude body—was there a particular biblical quote that condemned this behavior? His mind raced and he let out small barely perceptible whimpers as he stood before the group. What were they going to do to him? Rowella, that mere girl, had stunned him speechless with her bold seduction and the opening of her corset. This situation, oddly enough, was doing quite the same to him.


	16. Witnesses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter borders between mature and explicit for sexual content
> 
> the next chapter (chapter 17) is disturbing - be forewarned
> 
> Drake and Morwenna return in chapter 18

CHAPTER 16

The six masked women stood before Osborne Whitworth and Senara, their faces unreadable in the dim light of the damp dungeon.

“These ladies may or may not be acquaintances o’ yours,” Senara said. “They will be witness to what happens ‘ere tonight.”

Osborne swallowed, forcing himself to speak.

“And what might that be?”

Senara moved toward him, her knife in one hand as she viciously gripped his ear, making him yelp.

“Your humiliation, that’s what,” she snarled, wrenching his ear painfully. He yelped louder this time, unable to think of anything to say or do. “Put your hands in the air.”

“No,” he cried, panic welling up inside of him as he caught the glint of her knife moving toward his hands again. A whimper escaped his lips at the sight of the knife, and he immediately felt embarrassed.

“Ah, so we don’t want to listen, eh?” Senara snapped. “A simple castration would, in fact, be the quickest way to tame those… urges o’ yours.” Now her knife was touching his inner thigh, its coldness making him jerk involuntarily. 

“I’ve quite a bit o’ experience with it,” she continued, the knife’s point now contacting his scrotum. “Just hold still, and—”

“Stop!” he said, and he lifted his hands up to his sides.

The women against the wall smiled now and tittered about now, relaxing their postures and formerly stone-like faces as they took in the entire view of him. Senara jerked his ear again and then turned to the women and they instantly fell silent, falling back into line from their previously informal congregation against the wall.

Osborne’s eyes went back to their now serious faces, scanning each’s eyes pleadingly as he stood completely exposed before the ladies, his hands still up in a gesture of surrender. He greatly desired to remind them that he was a man of God and that disrespecting him in such a way was a mortal sin, but he could do no more than make little animalistic noises. His face was hot and he hung his head, allowing his eyes to sink to the floor.

“Now I’m goin’ to give ye something ye should have had as a boy,” Senara snarled, one hand still gripping his ear tightly as she spoke. “A good hide-tanning!”

Osborne’s now fearful eyes darted to Senara’s eyes and he could see they were wild and dilated and bloodthirsty. She dragged him by the ear towards the platform in the center of the room. At that, she promptly plopped her body down along its southeastern edge, dragging Osborne’s entire upper body with her by way of her grip on his ear. 

As his hands contacted the platform, preventing him from fully lying on her lap, Senara relinquished her hold on his ear and instead threw her muscular arms across his back, pulling him down onto her lap and holding him there. He attempted to resist but when he felt her blade against his inner thigh, he relented.

Now the fight had gone out of him completely and he let out a long quavering sigh that caused him to fully settle onto her legs. He lie heavily across her firm lap, the tips of his toes touching the floor and his arms splayed out in front of him, forearms resting on the platform. He was trapped and there was nothing he could do now. His erection was now crushed into her leg and he hoped the pain of it would make it go away. He closed his eyes momentarily, uttering a silent prayer for himself.

The first smack of open hand against buttocks made him yelp and lift his head. Senara had struck him surprisingly hard, and he could feel the blood flowing to his hot skin. 

“Have ye been a bad boy?” she asked. Was it a rhetorical question? Had she expected him to answer? He tried to open his mouth and could only whimper. The women along the wall started to chatter again amongst themselves.

Another firm smack. Osborne’s response came out as more of a moan as he clenched his buttocks in an attempt to remove the sting. 

“I asked ye a question, boy!” Senara snarled. “Tell these women how ye’ve been bad.”

He opened his mouth but only a moan and a whimper emerged.

A trio of three hard smacks followed, making him moan louder and louder, but he simply could not formulate words into a sentence to answer Senara. He could, however, hear the giggling of the women who watched him be subjected to such humiliation. Rather than attempt to look at them or at his punisher, he kept his eyes low to the ground and hoped he wouldn’t cry.

Martin and Senara had won—they had achieved Osborne’s complete and utter humiliation, just as they said they would. He recalled his own arrogance at first speaking to Senara and how he was certain he’d keep the upper hand, in spite of her efforts. Instead, he realized he had completely underestimated this woman and the completely unnerving effect of being naked and treated like a naughty child in front of her and her… friends? Fellow torturers? He’d previously thought it couldn’t be any worse with the three male captors violating him in his own bedroom and again repeatedly on the island and yet the conflicting sensations this one elicited from his mind and body made him want to crawl into his island cave and never come out again.

\--------------------------------

“How’ve ye sinned? Don’t make me ask ye again, boy!” Senara snarled.

 _Boy._ Osborne had never heard the word uttered in such a condescending, dehumanizing way. He felt sick to his stomach at what was happening to him and how he was powerless to fight it. His erection was still bulging painfully against her legs and backside burning as if he’d fallen into a pile of embers. His brain still couldn’t formulate words to say aloud to answer her, let alone to stop this from happening. Aggressive women always seemed to get the better of him, both in the context of seduction and apparently in the context of punishment as well.

Would this be over soon? Another slap landed and Senara spoke.

“Tha’s it!” She said. “Stand up, boy.”

He quickly complied with her command, glad to be out of such a humiliating position, his hands instantly covering his still-present erection.

“Now, crawl onto the platform. Go on, get up there.”

What was this? Another flogging? Hadn’t his backside endured enough these past forty days or so? His irritation at yet another type of harm to his ability to sit was enough to overcome his inability to speak.

“Why.” The word came out croaky and thick but the word was unmistakable. Osborne stood before her, his hands in front of his crotch, and remained still, awaiting her answer.

“Because ye’re not finished yet.”

“You have achieved my complete humiliation,” he replied, only allowing himself to look at her. “I admit that I wholly underestimated you.”

“Ye still haven’t called me Ma’am. Ye still haven’t told the girls how ye be deservin’ o’ all this.”

“I—I can now—Ma’am,” he said, facing the women, his red backside thankfully facing away from them. “I am here because I forced my wife to have relations with me, against her will—repeatedly.”

“What’s that called?” Senara spat. “The legal term for it. I want to hear ye say it to these lovely ladies.”

Now he was getting flustered again. The breasts on the second woman from the left looked very familiar to him. Was it someone he had slept with?

“I—” he began, his gaze focusing on her body. He eyed her up, her blond hair, her mask, the size and shape of the breasts that spilled out of her corset, her—foot?!

One of her feet was indeed without a shoe, although her opaque stockings occluded any specific recognition of her toes. The shoe in question sat behind the foot, and she wriggled her toes. _Oh God._ It had to be a prostitute then. He’d most certainly slept with this woman at some point. This woman had borne witness to his spanking and had seemingly liked it enough to reveal his favorite appendage of hers, her foot. From behind his hands, his manhood stiffened further. His tongue knotted in his throat, and his ability to speak was gone.

“What was that?” Senara snarled. “Ye didn’t finish. What did ye do to your wife?”

His mouth opened but he could only elicit a whimpering moan. It greatly embarrassed him, and he let his reddening face fall, averting his eyes from the unshod foot across the room.

“This man is a raper, a sadistic wife-raper,” she snarled, pointing at him with a look of revulsion. “Every time he wanted to indulge, he held her down and raped his own wife. He can’t say it ‘cause it’s too awful to admit.”

The women jeered at him now, spat on the ground in disgust. He felt the shame of it acutely, the revulsion it was eliciting in these women. He’d hoped his punishment would be over with the spanking, but it had seemingly only just begun.

\---------------------------------------

“Get on the platform,” Senara said again. With that, she shoved Osborne and he struck his shins painfully on the stone of the central platform, hissing through his teeth at the shock of it. Before he could back away or move in any direction, she shoved him again and he splayed out his arms to catch his fall, landing on his hands and knees in the middle of the raised platform, which was surprisingly made of packed dirt and thankfully less painful on his joints than a stone floor would have been. Woman number two quickly moved away from the wall and approached the platform on the opposite side. He nearly pissed himself as she sauntered toward him, the sway of her hips so very familiar to him. 

“Give her your hands,” Senara commanded. 

His eyes went back to the mystery woman he’d most certainly slept with, and shuddered. There she stood before him, her breasts beckoning to him, a small mole atop the left breast. He knew that mole. He had kissed that mole, had run his tongue over its smoothness, had even commented to her on the innate sensuality of its position on her body. His brain attempted to move from his ever-increasing mix of terror and sexual arousal to the logic of who this woman was, but at the sensation of her hands roughly grabbing his and pulling them towards her, he could do no more than whimper.


	17. Humiliation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is disturbing and explicit. you have been warned.
> 
> Drake and Morwenna return in the next chapter!

Within seconds, a shackle had been applied to each of Osborne Whitworth's wrists, the chain holding each shackle bolted to the floor by the platform. He was trapped on the platform now and his bare backside was in the air, knees and forearms dirtied. He turned his head to look behind him now—Senara was doing something as she stood next to the platform, looking down at something while moving her hands around her waist. It was then that his eyes locked on something she’d affixed to her body with a belt, a crude rod resembling a man’s erect organ. 

_Oh God._ That was for him. Senara was going to violate him in front of all these women. His eyes went wide and fearful and he panicked, attempting to crawl toward the other side of the platform, toward the woman he was certain he knew. That woman was smiling now and slowly backed up against the wall once again, her one foot still without a shoe. In spite of the terrifying situation he was now in, Osborne’s erection stubbornly persisted. He wanted to speak, to scream no or some such thing, but he could not form a single intelligible word in his dry mouth.

Senara was now on the platform behind him. He felt her hands grab him by the ankles and pull him toward her and he whimpered pitifully, digging his fingers into the dirt of the platform and kicking his legs as much as he could in a vain attempt to get away from her. Senara was right behind him now, her body positioned between his legs. He looked back at her, seeing the aggression in her eyes and shuddering at what was to come. 

The moment Senara grabbed his hips and pulled was the moment he finally was able to shriek. She had once again pulled his backside high into the air and was walking on her knees behind him, positioning herself for the assault. 

“If ye so much as try to kick me, I’ll cut off yer balls and put ‘em in yer mouth,” she told him. “Do ye understand?” He felt her hands moving between his legs and found his voice.

“Y-yes… Ma’am,” he blurted, sniveling all the while. “P-please don’t—”

His body leapt in the air, a loud yelp emanating from his mouth, at the feeling of her fingers moving to the crevice of his buttocks, smearing it with something greasy. He started to cry now, tears running down his face, head down, as he waited for the pain to come. 

“Look at all these ladies waiting to watch you get buggered,” Senara murmured behind him. “Bet ye’ve never been buggered by a woman before, eh? Just ye wait.”

\---------------------------------------

Osborne gritted his teeth as hard as possible as the assault began, resting his chin on the dirt of the platform and squeezing his eyes shut. He’d never been so humiliated in his life. Senara moved like a man behind him, the lubrication she’d applied seemingly making the pain less apparent as it was with Finn and Russell. He couldn’t believe what he was going through—the entire situation seemed surreal to him. A married vicar being stripped, humiliated, and buggered by a woman, in front of several other women in masks—at least one that he knew intimately. 

His arousal had steadily grown during his placement on Senara’s lap, and it had finally begun to fade. His return to normalcy was not to be fully achieved, however.

One particularly deep thrust suddenly struck some intensely pleasurable place within him, emitting a sensation of utter ecstasy that jolted up his spine. He shuddered at the sensation in spite of himself, his face as red as it had ever been. _What just happened? What’s wrong with me?_ he mused. _I am no better than Russell and Finn, getting my pleasure from this act. I am a sodomite._

There it was again—the spot had been struck again. He shuddered again, his breaths now coming out as pants, his hips now subtly rocking back and forth. He didn’t dare look at his nether regions—he knew what was happening to him and dreaded the outcome.

_Is there nothing that can prevent this?_ he mused, his body driven to greater and greater pleasurable sensations. _Perhaps if I focus on the shame of this—perhaps the gossip of those woman—I can calm down. Why had this not occurred with Russell or Finn? Is it the female element that is causing this feeling? Is it the angle?_ He opened his eyes and happened to immediately focus on the unshod foot of woman number two.

“I can feel ye getting there, ye bloody pervert!” Senara yelled, increasing her pace even further. “Seems ye like being taken from behind!” Again and again, waves of tingling pleasure flooded him, driving him further towards his end. A hard slap on his backside from Senara, and it was all over for him.

His release came, an unstoppable force that made him cry out, made his body shudder and empty itself in spite of himself. 

The room fell silent, and Senara stopped the assault, removing the implement. He remained prostrate on the platform, legs shamefully spread, arms shackled in front of him and outstretched as if in prayer. He buried his face between his arms now, sobbing and panting and not caring who heard. 

“Wow, we got a real pervert right here, a man who likes it up the arse, by a woman no less. And let me tell ye something, girls.”

At that, Senara reached forward, grabbing Osborne by the hair. She yanked his head up sharply, his eyes opening widely in shock, as he was forced to look at the women along the wall.

“This pervert is none other than Reverend Osborne Whitworth, the vicar of Sawle Church.”

\------------------------------------

Gasps were heard. He could hear the women’s disbelieving statements. _But Reverend Whitworth is a fat ugly toad. Can’t be him, can it?_ Osborne’s eyes went wide at the revelation of his name, his home, to these women. _He’s the one who frequents the brothel, eh?_ At least before, he was a stranger to them, minus the woman he believed to be Rowella. Now they all knew him for who he was, by name and by his perversion. He gaped at woman number two, desperation and panic in his eyes. Her shoe was back on her foot now and she was shaking her head in disappointment. He swallowed loudly, hating himself.

“D’ye want your children learnin’ about God through this depraved sinner?” Senara shrieked. “This wife rapin’ sodomite?”

“No!” they yelled back. He whimpered at the way she was describing him. It was true. He was destined for hell—he was never more certain of anything in his life. Osborne shut his eyes, his body quaking with sobs.

“Put yer legs together, ye damn pervert,” Senara then said, slapping his rump. He blinked, complying immediately and yet remaining on hands and knees.

“D’ye think your crooked vicar need punished for _darin’_ to teach we an’ our children the way of God?”

“Aye!” 

Osborne tried to lower his head but Senara yanked his head back again, forcing him to look at the women.

“D’ye think ye need punished for it, Vicar?” she said to him now, her face very close to his. “Wait—mebbe I shouldn’t ask thee—I daresay ye’d enjoy it!” she said with a triumphant laugh. The women all laughed as well. 

“Step forward, girls and give him a good whack,” Senara said, gloating now. “Cane the pervert for his sins against his wife and God. Cane him for his raping ways, his sexual perversions. Prepare him for his eternal damnation.”

Osborne was shivering violently now, feeling sick to his stomach. He kept his legs together but lowered his head, an act that was not stopped by Senara. He placed his face between his arms once again, waiting for the volleys of pain. He deserved it. At least death would be soon upon him. He wouldn’t have to live with this shame—with the knowledge that these women had seen him fully humiliated. Sure, after his death, they would talk—talk and gossip about it. Truro would know who he truly was, but at least he wouldn’t be around to hear them.

The first woman stepped up. He raised his eyes only high enough to peer at her shoes. She stood in front of him with the implement and then proceeded around to the back of him. He shut his eyes and gritted his teeth, waiting.

The cane struck him with such force that his face was ground into the dirt. He screamed into the dirt all his agony as the first woman strode away, leaving the second woman to be next. Osborne lifted his head to view her, this woman that he most certainly knew rather personally. He saw that her shoes were back on. His gaze lifted to her dress, to her breasts, to her characteristic mole.

“Rowella,” he uttered, his eyes now fixed on her face, a type of accusation in and of itself. He tried to search the mask for her green eyes, but the mask hid them well.

The woman didn’t react to the name. She simply stood before him, cane in hand. He was certain it was her now. So Rowella, his temptress, was part of this secret man-punishing society. It made complete sense, in fact. She had already punished him severely for his adultery by extorting five hundred pounds from him. There was indeed some evil, some sadism, in her. She had delighted in making him pay dearly for his adulterous lust every time he was drawn back to her by a force beyond his understanding. Rowella was a true temptress, a siren straight from her Greek mythology books, drawing him in to destroy him, piece by piece. The last piece he’d had left after his time on the island was his dignity, but that was gone now as well. 

It then occurred to him, as the second woman circled behind him, that Rowella was the reason he was going through all of this. Could, Morwenna, in fact, have had nothing to do with this? Rowella had been at Sawle during many of his nightly assaults on his wife and would have been privy to those conversations, those intimate exchanges, between him and his wife. Not only that, but Rowella was part of this secret punishment society.

“Aghhh!” he screamed, the cane striking him at the juncture between thigh and buttocks, the most painful stroke he’d yet endured from both the women and the men. It made him buck forward and almost collapse on himself in an attempt to endure the sting of it. Surely he would bruise there. Rather than see the next woman stride toward him, the air was silent, marred only by his panting, his desperate sobs and sniffles. 

“God almighty!” he yelled, the cane striking precisely the same spot a second time. Eyes filling with tears from the sting, he turned his head to view the source of his agony—Rowella. The woman he perceived to be Rowella was smiling, handing the cane to Senara and moving back toward the wall behind woman number one.

The rest of the canings were not nearly as painful—and personal—as the two he’d received from the woman he was certain was Rowella. After the women were finished with his caning, Senara stood beside the platform again, jerking his head up by the hair, forcing him to look at the women.

“These women have borne witness to your perverted nature, your arousal at engaging in such unnatural, ungodly acts. They have witnessed you at your lowest point, have gazed into the depths of your very soul. However, they have vowed to not speak of what they have seen here tonight, that is, if you truly change your ways.”

“Wh-what?” he blubbered now, his wide eyes now focused on Senara. “Am I not to be executed?”

“Like I said before, it’s not yer death I want—it’s a change in ye. Ye must learn that ye aren’t entitled to anythin’—either as a man or as a husband. In fact, ye should spend the rest o’ your miserable life beggin’ your wife’s forgiveness. Understand?”

So he was to live out the rest of his life now, knowing that six women had watched him being humiliated in every way, from being spanked like a child to being violated by a woman and finding his release in it. No, he couldn’t bear it. Osborne loathed himself, loathed his body and the way it behaved, loathed his libido and his responses to such unnatural acts. He would not live a day longer. 

“I understand,” he began, “but I would like to make a request, if I may.”

She released her hold on his hair, and he noticeably cringed.

“What might that be?”

“I ask for a quick death.”

She responded with a roll of the eyes, which frustrated him immensely.

“Why? Ye think ye haven’t changed enough to avoid making these ladies talk?”

“My… perversions run too deep,” he began. “I should be executed for what I’ve done, for what I am.”

He looked now at the second woman against the wall—Rowella. Her mask hid any expression she might have had. He noticed no body language from her indicating agreement or disagreement with his request. Would Rowella get the pleasure of watching him die today?

“Ye are but a flawed sinner, like the rest o’ us, women and men both,” Senara announced, spreading her arms grandiosely. “No more entitled than we to demand affection, to demand relations, to demand respect. Ye need to _earn_ it, startin’ at the bottom. Ye are now at the bottom. ‘Tis here we set ye free.”


	18. Morwenna

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think you will all like this chapter! There's a major character reunion!

Chapter 18

Senara strode up to Osborne’s hands and unshackled him. For a moment the former vicar didn’t move, rather looking at Senara like a desperate, trapped rabbit. 

“Get to it then,” she said, slapping him again on his rump. He whimpered at the resounding smack, watching woman number five open the door to the chamber and turn to leave.

Should he confront Rowella? Should he stand up and make his way to her, wrap his blood- and dirt-covered hands around her slender white neck, and choke the life out of her for her role in this unending punishment?

No. He deserved this. He deserved the shame, the agony of it. Apparently his body knew that, and responded in kind. It had derived pleasure from his own pain, his own humiliation. Osborne watched all the women file out the door, with Senara at the end. The door shut and he was left alone in the room.

He leaned back onto his haunches, feeling the burn of his backside as it made contact with his heels. He was in shock; that he could tell. Never could he have imagined something so degrading, so terrorizing, so _arousing_ , happening to him.

Osborne looked down at his body, hollowed out from starvation. His hands, his chest, his knees, were covered in dirt, blood and other bodily fluids of his. He felt sicker than he’d ever felt before—his stomach lurched, his head throbbed, his entire body shook, and it seemed that every part of him, inside and out, ached with every beat of his heart.

He was not left alone for long—after a couple of minutes, Martin soon opened the door and looked at him with disgust.

“My God—what have they done to ‘ee?” he remarked. 

\---------------------------------------

“Good day to thee, Morwenna,” Drake said smilingly, standing at her door with a handful of flowers and a basket of apples that had gotten soaked in the rains that had pummeled Cornwall for the better part of a day. 

“Good day,” she replied in kind, from her bedroom window. “I’ll be down shortly.”

The lanky lad waited patiently at the door of St. Sawle vicarage for Morwenna, and she met him at the door with the saddest of smiles.

“What’s wrong, Morwenna?” Drake began, his face falling. “If ye don’ want to see me today, I can go—”

“It’s not that,” she answered. “I miss my son. I miss him so very much.”

“Would ye care to visit with him? Lady Whitworth has settled in Truro for the time being. Surely she’d allow ye to see—”

“She informed me that I must send word before I am to attempt to visit him,” she replied. “I am not in any state to go there. If she sees me like this, unable to take care of myself properly, she will be even more convinced of her righteousness in taking them away.”

“I can draw ye a bath, if ye desire. If ye wish to send word, I will carry it to her house in haste. In fact, ye can accompany me, dolled up as she require—what kind of mother-in-law wouldn’t wish a mother to see her own children?”

“Lady Whitworth, in fact,” Morwenna replied. “That hateful woman has taken over from Osborne in making my life a living hell. There’s no justice in the world.”

“Life hasn’t been fair to thee, I do admit,” Drake admitted. “And yet ye are the most worthy of it. You are pure—your love is pure, your soul is pure. Neither your husband nor his mother can touch that part o’ ye. Yet it is your despair that clouds the hope that things can an’ will change. I promise ye, Morwenna, things will get better.”

“When? How long must I wait?”

“That day’s comin’ right soon, I do feel it. I am certain you can open your heart again, to a man who owes you his very life.”

It was then that Morwenna smiled at him. He touched her hand lightly then and she smiled shyly.

“I don’t know if I’m capable of loving,” she replied. “I don’t know if I want to try.” 

“I want thee to love again. Even if it aren’t me. You deserve as much.”

He gazed deep into her eyes as the petite brunette continued to smile at him. 

“May I give thee a kiss on the cheek, ‘Wenna? I understand if ye—”

“Yes,” she blurted, covering her mouth in surprise at her instant answer.

He leaned in carefully with utter patience, and planted a chaste kiss on her cheek. Morwenna closed her eyes at the feeling, the delicateness of it. The fear she felt about every touch was lessening with every patient attempt he’d make to soften the walls she’d built. Perhaps next time, he could kiss her on the mouth. Would she welcome it, or would her brain force her to pull away? Time would only tell.

Morwenna and Drake exchanged excited smiles and departed on the most hopeful terms yet.

\------------------------------------------

“I’ve s-surely c-come down with some illness,” Osborne muttered inside the sack that had been thrown over his head. The shivers that had overcome him had intensified in the cold rain. He stood as still as he was able, obeying Martin’s command that he take this naked, impromptu rain shower outside Senara’s dungeon. He did not so much as touch the sack on his head, though his arms were not restrained. Perhaps this was the beginning of his slow execution—he would not fight it. He could feel Martin’s hand now, covered with some kind of cloth, wiping his body off. It was humiliating to be sponged down like some poor peasant boy by a long-suffering mother, but he said nothing of it. If it was pneumonia he was developing, this rain shower would accelerate it to consume him within days. He was far too weak from starvation and blood loss to last very long.

The only sound that emerged from Osborne was the chattering of his teeth as Martin redressed him, wrapped some bandages around his sliced hand and placed him back on his horse, all while the bag stayed over his head. Surely he would be going back to the island, but secretly he hoped he would succumb well before then. 

\---------------------------------------

When the bag was finally removed from Osborne’s head more than an hour later, he was immediately aware of the sensation of rain pouring on his burning hot scalp. His injured right hand appeared to be bleeding through the bandages. His backside stung painfully and the juncture of his thighs and buttocks ached acutely with every movement of the horse beneath him. 

“Where are we going?” Osborne blurted. “Where am I?”

“Home,” Martin replied with a grim smile.

Osborne turned to the front again and could just make out the imposing stone façade of Sawle vicarage emerging before him, blanketed by the rain and darkness of the night.

“No,” he moaned, straining against the shackles behind him. He attempted to lean to one side, but Martin grabbed him and held him between his strong arms. “No!” Osborne repeated, “I will not go back.”

“What do it matter? Ye’ll be dead in days.”

Osborne gulped at the man’s words. He’d suspected it as much himself, but to hear someone else say it, made it that much more real.

“Then why should you put my wife through this—”

“You need to confess your sins to her, to set ye right with God,” Martin interrupted. “Otherwise….”

“There is nothing I can do to get right with God now,” Osborne muttered. “I am fallen.”

Martin dismounted the horse quickly, lifting the vicar off of the saddle in one smooth motion.

The moment Osborne was placed on the ground, he attempted to run. Weak from starvation and torture, he had barely staggered ten feet away before Martin caught up to him.

Martin tackled him from behind and he landed face down in a large mud puddle. He could feel the puddle filling up his nostrils and considered breathing in the liquid in an attempt to drown himself. 

Instead he felt Martin moving off of him and the click of leg irons around his ankles.

“Stand up,” Martin commanded, grabbing Osborne by the back of his rain-soaked jacket. “Stand up and be a man.”

At this point, Osborne was so weak and tired that he simply allowed Martin to stand him back up.

Now Martin shackled his hands in front of him.

“I’d thought ye’d given up the will to fight, but no matter,” he commented. “Runnin’ away won’t save your soul. But begging that woman’s forgiveness, now that just might.”

\---------------------------------------

The loud knocking stirred her from an uneasy sleep. She was wholly alone in the large estate, with no maids, guards, chefs, governesses or any such employees to answer the door. It was surely the middle of the night that this person was attempting to enter her domicile. 

Earlier, Morwenna had departed from Drake Carne with a smile on her face, and hope in her heart. She’d even managed to draw herself a bath afterwards for the first time in more than a week. Morwenna was beginning to try to see the possibilities in her future again, the possibilities of love and companionship. Perhaps even the possibility that she’d be able to leave this place and be reunited with her son forever. 

Trembling, Morwenna pulled the blankets up to her eyes and waited in the dark emptiness of her chamber for the knocking to stop. 

“Mrs. Whitworth!” Martin suddenly yelled. “Someone here to see ye!”

She remained completely silent. Who in their right mind would visit at this hour?

“Mrs. Whitworth! I know you’re in there!” the voice called out again.

Could someone have kidnapped John Conan from Lady Whitworth and brought him here? Drake had said that things would get better for her and mentioned her opening her heart again. Was this the first good thing to come to her, at this ungodly hour?

She quickly and quietly climbed out of bed and quickly tied a robe over her shift. Cautiously she peered out the window. Rain was pouring down in tumults and she could not discern the identities of the two individuals standing at her door. One of the figures was tall and broad-shouldered and the other was shorter and slender, with rounded shoulders and his hands shackled in front of him.

Rather than meet them at the door, she opened the window and called out.

“Who is it?” she cried. “I’m not opening my door at this hour for strangers.”

“It’s your husband, Madam.”

How could it be? The man speaking was certainly not Osborne Whitworth. His voice was of an entirely different timbre and his entire build and height betrayed him. The thin, slumping man was certainly not Osborne either. Her husband was straight-shouldered and fat, striding along with an air of importance. No one else waited on the driveway or in the yard. One lonely riderless horse stood several paces behind the two men, stamping at the wet ground.

“My husband is dead,” Morwenna shouted back from the window. “You are mistaken, Sir.”

“There you see,” Osborne whispered to Martin. “She has refused me. Shall we leave now?”

“Ma’am, I implore you to take a good look at this man,” Martin said insistently. “He’s lost a good deal of weight but he is indeed your husband.”

“I bid you return when it is day,” she said. “I do not entertain visitors at night.”

“He’s near death, Ma’am.”

\---------------------------------

Minutes later, the door opened to reveal Morwenna’s concerned face, a lit candle, and what appeared to be some kind of club.

“Your husband, Mrs. Whitworth,” Martin said, and stepped aside to reveal a thin man covered head to toe in mud, his shoulders slumped and wrists and ankles both shackled. His auburn hair was matted to his head. For a moment, his blue eyes caught her dark eyes, but then fell to the ground.

“This can’t be him,” she murmured. “His build, his clothes—everything about him is wrong.”

“He’s no longer fat, most assuredly. These past forty or so days he been gone, he’s been without food.”

“His posture is nothing like—”

“That would be from the loss o’ his pride,” Martin explained, raising his eyebrows. Osborne lifted his eyes to peer back up at his wife, who seemed to be completely unable to recognize him. Granted, it was dark and he was now exceedingly slender and muddy to boot, but her lack of recognition bothered him.

“But why is he shackled then, if indeed it is him?” Morwenna asked, indicating the leg irons.

“He’s done some very bad things, and for those things he’s been rightfully punished.”

“My husband was not some common criminal—he was a vicar,” she replied. “This is not him—good day to you both.” She gave a quick bow of her head and stepped back from them, moving to shut the door.

However, before Morwenna could shut the door on the two men, Martin reached out an arm and stopped the door from closing.


	19. Stranger

Chapter 19 

“Osborne Whitworth is indeed a criminal, though not common. Were he only accused of smugglin’ or theft, he’d not have been punished quite so severely.”

Morwenna turned to Martin, aghast that he’d prevented her from returning into her home. Though he was an imposing figure, he appeared to unaware of his companion’s mistaken identity. 

“What are his crimes, then?”

Martin grabbed Osborne by the back of the neck. 

“Go ahead and tell her,” he demanded.

Osborne shut his eyes as he was grabbed. He clamped his mouth shut as well. 

“Speak!” Martin bellowed. “Or would ye prefer I hurt your pretty wife?”

Morwenna gasped, backing again toward the door as gooseflesh appeared on her chest. Who were these people? She should have never opened her door to speak to these criminals, she mused—there was nothing impeding them from robbing her or even killing her. Osborne’s eyes shot open at the threat from Martin, and he glared at his captor before turning to Morwenna. He could scarcely raise his eyes to meet hers.

“Rape,” Osborne muttered, keeping his eyes low.

Morwenna blanched, wishing very much that these men could leave. Osborne did not observe her reaction; instead he stood slumped and still before his wife, his eyes focused on the rain striking the ground and creating ripples on the walkway.

“Rape of whom?” Martin pushed.

“Morwenna,” Osborne replied in a barely audible voice. Martin was not satisfied with his captive’s brief responses.

“ _This_ Morwenna?” he said, pointing at the diminutive woman in front of him.

“Yes.”

“I beg your pardon, Sirs, but would I not recall such an assault by this… stranger?” Morwenna blurted. “I must ask you to leave now, or else you will have to face my guards.”

“This is your husband, Madam,” Martin replied. “Had the Reverend Osborne Whitworth not raped you repeatedly throughout your marriage?”

She could only stare at the taller man in utter suspicion, and then back at the thin, pitiful, muddy man beside him. Now Osborne was looking up as well, at the confused horror in his wife’s eyes.

“I am your husband,” he croaked. “I should not be taken back, but instead be forced to finish my punishment.”

She blinked then as if in disbelief.

“This can’t be Osborne,” she said, as if in a daze. 

The fallen vicar’s eyes rose to meet his wife’s, blinking with disbelief. That had been very difficult for him to admit, even though the trials of the last month and a half had forced him to see his own wrongs. 

Morwenna did seem affected by the admission, her eyes boring into his own. “He would never admit fault.”

Now it was Martin who spoke, patting the vicar patronizingly on the back.

“He is broke now, like a proper horse. He’s been forced to look inside his very soul—he didn’ like what he see.”

Osborne swallowed. Why was this conversation taking so long? He wanted to forget about the last several days—nay, the last month and a half of his life—as quickly as possible. If it meant the fires of hell would soon be devouring his mortal soul, then so be it.

“Why should I take him back, if this is indeed him?” she responded. “Clearly this… person doesn’t want me to do so.”

“Ye don’t have to,” Martin said, shrugging. “If ye won’t do so, it make no difference to us. He’ll simply finish starvin' or else the pneumonia’ll take him.”

“Starving? Pneumonia?”

“Aye. Ye see how thin he is, how weak and tired he be. He’s but days from death either way.”

She blanched then, considering. If she continued to refuse them, this man would die. If this man was indeed Osborne, perhaps he deserved to die, contrite or not. He seemed to prefer dying over returning to Sawle. This man, however, didn’t resemble Osborne. He was, in fact, rather handsome, with his sad blue eyes, prominent cheekbones, boyish jawline, and full lips. He seemed far younger than Osborne, a broken, poor confused man. 

She had been blackmailed into marrying Osborne four years before. Perhaps this poor man had been blackmailed into impersonating him. Osborne certainly could have chosen someone who better resembled him both in posture and build, but there weren’t many overweight men in Truro, let alone an overweight impoverished man.

Drake had mentioned her opening her heart to a man who owed her his life. Did he not mean himself? She wasn’t certain how Drake owed her his life, but if she allowed this young man into her home, he would also owe her his life. Had fate spoken to her through the lips of her beloved Drake, the sweet man who had been so patient with her? Why would fate direct her away from him? And yet, it seemed to be doing so.

“I will take him in,” she said, swallowing audibly.

Osborne’s eyes went wide as he looked first and Martin and then at Morwenna.

“Wh-what?” he blurted, disbelief washing over him in waves.

Now he could feel Martin squatting down behind him, removing his leg irons. He was frozen in place, uncertain as to what to do next. He imagined he’d be turned down and would have to shuffle back over to the horse, where he could be taken back to the island, to return to his fate of banishment and starvation, none the wiser of the talk at Truro. Instead, Morwenna had accepted him back into Sawle, in spite of his specifically asking her not to.

Now his shackles were removed from his wrists. He was at full liberty to sprint off if he so desired, disappearing into the woods or perhaps continuing further and throwing himself from the cliffs of Cornwall. 

Instead he stood stupidly in front of the door, rain continuing to fall on his face and rinse away the mud. He could hear the sound of the shackles moving further and further away from him—Martin was returning to the horse and his chance to leave here and meet his fate would be gone. Morwenna stood in front of him, her face expressing utter puzzlement and fear as well.

“Are you going to come in then?” she said, making room for him to squeeze past her into the house. He couldn’t take his eyes off of her. She’d never treated him with even the utmost ounce of warmth in their short marriage and yet, here she was, inviting him into the house.

“Wh-why are you doing this?” he blurted, planting his feet in place. “Do you not loathe me with every ounce of your being?”

“What are you talking about?” she replied, taken aback. “I could not in good conscience let him take you to your death.”

“Right,” he said, giving her a cursory head nod. She was a much better person than he.

He proceeded past her, ensuring that there was ample distance between them as he moved past. He stood in the foyer now and turned to her, noticing that Morwenna looked far slenderer and paler than she had when he’d last seen her in Bodmin.

“What happened to your hand?” she asked him, pointing at the wrappings on his right hand.

“I was sliced... with a knife,” he replied, swallowing. If she pushed him any further on this subject, he would promptly change it. He imagined he looked much like a sick cornered animal right now, filthy, clearly injured, and feral.

“Tell me,” she murmured, still guarded but warm, “what is your real name? You’re safe now.”

Osborne’s eyes widened and he blinked with confusion.

“Do you still believe me to be someone else? I am your husband.”

“You look and act nothing like him.”

“I’ve been starved and tortured for forty bloody days!”

“That doesn’t explain why you—”

“I can prove it,” he interrupted, recalling a surefire method to convince her. “My birthmark—do you recall it?”

“Your birthmark?”

“The one… on my backside. Resembling… a pig’s tail, apparently.”

She made a face of distaste but then nodded at him.

“Might you believe I am who I say I am now?”

“You have merely described the birthmark,” she answered. “It is a birthmark I have only heard about myself, and so I—”

As she replied, he abruptly turned around and pulled down his trousers, stopping her mid-sentence as he inadvertently revealed his caning wounds to Morwenna. 

“Do you see now?” he said, pulling up his pants and turning around to see her response. “My birthmark proves that I’m—”

Her face was as white as a ghost now, and she looked as if she felt faint.

“What’s wrong?” he questioned, gaping at her with concern. “Did you not see it?” He considered further, blinking with confusion. “What—are you ill?”

“No, I did not see it,” she said, her eyes returning to the scene at hand. Rather, her face took on that of utter pity. “What happened to you?”

“What do you—” He looked down, thinking. The floggings. He’d forgotten. Perhaps the cane marks had cut across his birthmark and in effect, concealed it. 

He felt shame washing over him at the remembrance of his punishment at the hands of Senara and her masked ladies, Rowella knowing just where to strike on his body for the maximal amount of pain. He bowed his head and swallowed, wanting to die before answering.

His death did not come, but Morwenna was still patiently awaiting his answer.

“I was caned,” he replied, his face grim. “The marks must be obscuring the birthmark…. I assure you; it is there.”

The fact that this strange man had yanked down his pants in front of her with no sense of propriety further convinced Morwenna that he could not be Osborne. Never would her husband have done such a thing. Even when he violated her, he remained fully clothed all the while. In fact, it was only from her sister that she learned he even had a birthmark on his backside. 

“I imagine you would like to get cleaned up,” Morwenna said, eyeing his wet mud-covered clothing. “I had drawn a bath earlier today. It’s no longer warm, but I—”

“Fine,” he snipped dismissively, more irritated now than ever. How was his wife finding it impossible to recognize him? Certain aspects of his appearance had not changed—his eyes, his mouth, the color of his hair. Had she never really looked at him?

Perhaps not. She loathed him, utterly and completely, from the moment they first locked arms in the church. They never spoke at length about anything. Even during his repeated violations of her, she never looked at him. He would wager that she didn’t know him at all. 

But what was there to know? Was he indeed Osborne Whitworth anymore? His voluminous amounts of fat were gone, along with much of his sense of entitlement, his self-importance. His posture was shot to hell. His sense of modesty had literally been stripped from him. He had lived like a savage and had been treated like a sex slave, had been beaten and shackled and starved and buggered. The way he thought about his actions now, the way he thought about himself, had been irrevocably changed. Perhaps Morwenna was right—he was not Osborne Whitworth, at least the one she knew.


	20. Lost Time

Chapter 20 

The bathwater was cold and cloudy. Osborne Whitworth recalled Rowella sitting in it what seemed like a lifetime ago, lifting her lithe legs, her perfect foot, out of the bathwater as he spied on her through the door. It had been the first time that his teenage temptress had aroused him, the steepening of his already headlong plummet from grace having begun on his wedding night with Morwenna. He thought of Morwenna now and how she’d managed to draw herself a bath without help. He’d have to ask her where the help was, where the children were. The house was cold and dusty and emptier than he’d ever known it to be.

Shortly after he’d removed his filthy jacket and shirt, there was a knock at the door, the very door he used to spy on his young sister-in-law. 

“I’ve some clothes for you to change into,” Morwenna offered. “I am placing them by the door.”

“Why, do we no longer have servants for that?”

She blinked several times. His voice did sound similar to Osborne’s, on second thought. He seemed to know they had servants. But couldn’t Osborne himself, or perhaps some messenger, have conveyed this insider knowledge to him? She had herself been blackmailed into marrying Osborne, in exchange for freeing Drake from the hangman’s noose. Was it even possible that this was a similar situation? Perhaps Osborne wanted to begin his life anew elsewhere but didn’t want to lose out on the Whitworth fortune and so had sent a rather poor impersonator to the house to pretend to be him in his stead. Perhaps in time, she’d see her real husband again, alive and fat as ever, come to shove the imposter aside and collect his inheritance at his mother’s passing.

Should she lie to this man about their servants? Perhaps he was getting an idea of who’d be witness to whatever he had planned for her, for the house. However, she quickly dispelled the notion at the image of his hunched, emaciated, muddied body and cane marks. He had been tortured and was not in any state to terrorize her. 

“I had to let go of the servants,” she replied. “My husband left me no funds when he disappeared.”

Osborne moved quickly to the door, opening it to reveal to Morwenna that he’d since removed his shirt. His chest and abdomen were hairy, ribs prominent and belly concave. She gasped and covered her mouth—did this man have no propriety? In the ten minutes since he’d entered the house, she’d seen his buttocks and now his entire upper body. In the four years she’d been married to Osborne Whitworth, she’d not seen either of these areas.

She felt a strong urge to run away. This man was uncouth, wild and uninhibited. What had possessed her to let this animal into her home?

Morwenna backed away, her face becoming noticeably paler, heart pounding in her chest as her new guest took a step toward her. She began to lift her hand up to stop him, to keep him away, but then he spoke.

“You’ve been without help for that long?!” he exclaimed, seemingly unperturbed at his state of undress. “What of my mother?”

Suddenly confusion overtook her terror.

“Your mother?” she murmured, blinking rapidly.

He rolled his eyes impatiently.

“Lady Whitworth!”

“Right.” He heard her visibly swallow. “A month or so ago, she moved in and hired some additional help for the house, but when she left and took the children, I had to let the help go once again.”

Her face reflected utter sadness at the thought, and it seemed her entire body was collapsing in on itself at the admission.

“She took the children?!” Osborne cried. “Where?” 

“Back to her estate in Truro. I’m not to visit with them before calling upon her first.”

He blinked, eyeing Morwenna suspiciously.

“Why did she take them?”

His words seemed to visibly wound her, for she winced at every syllable.

“She did not believe me competent as a mother. She took them only days after I’d lost the baby I’d been carrying.”

Now his eyes were agog at the admission. He’d never had such a long conversation with this woman, and as could be predicted, it was full of things he knew nothing about.

“You were pregnant? By whom?”

“My husband. Apparently you’re well-aware of what he’d been doing to me, if your so-called confession is any indication. He’d recently begun doing so again, shortly before he disappeared.”

Morwenna clearly did not believe that he was Osborne, in hearing her speak. Was she mentally ill, the victim of some kind of imposter syndrome? Or was he truly nothing like himself in spite of his clear prior knowledge of his birthmark, their servants, and his mother? It was surreal to hear her speak of him in the third person when she was speaking directly to him. It was as if he was privy to another’s unfiltered perspective of himself, almost as if he’d died and his ghost was floating about in Sawle.

But then again, he wasn’t responding to her with his usual level of impertinence. Perhaps that was further convincing her of his mistaken identity. How would he convince her that he was indeed her husband? But then again, did he really want to be Osborne Whitworth?

\---------------------------------

Osborne took an exceedingly long time to finish bathing. He allowed the cool soapy water to soak into his sweat-soaked skin and clean him of the filth he’d been accumulating this past month and a half. He’d no idea what time it was, but he had needed greatly to be cleaned. He’d scrubbed every part of his body that could be reached, and was made acutely aware of the extent to which he’d been starved. He could feel almost every pair of ribs, in addition to the curve of his hip bones. His wrist and foot bones were visible just under the skin. His face was angular now, and he could even run his fingers along his Adam’s apple and the entire length of his collarbones. 

If word spread that he was back at Sawle, surely Rowella would be the first to speak of what she’d seen. He could not imagine her honoring her word that gossip would not begin until he reverted to his former ways. Should he still plan to end his life? It was a shame that the children were not home to speak to him one final time. If he called upon his mother to return to Sawle, would she exhibit the same confusion as Morwenna? Would she be incapable of recognizing him as well? If his own wife of four years could not recognize him, it would be nigh impossible for his own children to identify him, even Sarah and Anne. He had never been a hands-on father in any sense of the word, and found himself shivering in the tub with his head down, regretting the distance he’d created between himself and his own daughters.

It was clear now to him that Morwenna was ignorant in all that had transpired. If she’d conspired to have him starved and beaten, she wouldn’t have been so shocked to see that it had been done. If she had had anything to do with the plot to punish him, she never would have allowed him back into the house. Yet, here she was, in rare form, bringing him clothes and being uncharacteristically kind to him.

He stood up from the tub unsteadily, thirstier than he’d care to admit. He’d brought in the change of clothes Morwenna had left for him: one of his long nightshirts and a dressing-gown. Once he’d changed into them, he took a lit candle and headed for his chamber.

His chamber was just how he’d left it, although now there was a fresh log in the fireplace and the very beginnings of a fire in the hearth. Two logs sat nearby, waiting to be added to the fire. The room was cold and drafty and he was thankful it was not yet winter. Morwenna had apparently placed a folded blanket at the end of the bed. He pulled his duvet back to reveal the sheets, still stained darkly with his blood from the very first assault he’d endured.

He rolled his eyes. If she’d merely searched about the room a bit or bothered to clean his linens, she would have perhaps become aware that he’d been telling the truth in Bodmin about the three men assaulting him. 

It mattered not now. For now, he would have to shift the sheets aside, sleeping directly on the featherbed, which was also stained, and hope that they still had the means to clean their own clothing. He would not let her see the blood. The question that would follow would lead to the revelation that he’d been internally damaged, and he was determined not to speak of the sexual assaults he’d had to endure.

Osborne moved the duvet aside now and slid under it with his freshly scrubbed skin, pleasure flooding his senses. Never did he imagine he’d sleep in a bed again, let alone his own.

The suicidal ideations he’d had at the end of his humiliation returned to him then, interrupting his bliss. If word got out that he’d returned to Sawle, those women wouldn’t wait to spread the gossip about him. Perhaps they’d already begun. His reputation in town was as good as destroyed. If he dared ascend the pulpit again, he’d be mocked and jeered at. His life as a vicar was over. His ability to stroll around Truro was marred by the probability that someone would recognize him. Yes, his own wife did not recognize him, but those six women knew exactly who he was. Perhaps he should not wait until they identified him first…. Perhaps he should take his bloodied sheet, tie it around his neck and the bedpost, and leap from his window. Perhaps he should find Morwenna’s laudanum and imbibe it all.

A deep and restorative sleep overcame him before he could contemplate the subject any further.

\------------------------------

The couple sat in the uncharacteristically cold kitchen, Osborne idly sipping some water and occasionally nibbling on a biscuit. He remained in his nightshirt and dressing-gown, quite certain that none of his breeches would fit him anymore. Morwenna sat at the other end of the table, drinking a cold tea and staring out the window. She looked tired and drawn.

“Why is there no firewood?” Osborne suddenly blurted. He looked down at his plate of breakfast, consisting of two ginger biscuits and a single apple. “Is this all the food we have?”

“As you might imagine, we have been going through things faster than usual this past week,” she replied matter-of-factly. Osborne blinked indignantly. He’d only just arrived the night before and hadn’t eaten a thing before going to bed. Morwenna had given him a mere three logs for his room, so how could she seemingly blame him for the entire week’s supplies?

“Why?” 

“Do you not recall? You have been ill with pneumonia,” she said. “You were abed for nearly a week.”

He thought of this morning. He’d climbed out of bed feeling utterly refreshed and had noticed that he was lying on a clean sheet, but it hadn’t dawned on him what that meant. In fact, the linens had been changed multiple times this past week, for he’d sweated through them repeatedly.

How could he not remember anything that had happened in a week’s time? He could recall his entire island ordeal, every second of his repeated and merciless assaults, every growl of hunger from his stomach, every icy prickle of rain landing on his unprotected head. 

“I do not recall anything of the sort.”

“You developed a very high fever and were delirious. You’d yell out all sorts of things and you refused to eat. There were times I thought you would surely die.”

He became extremely uncomfortable at the thought of his yelling things he could not remember. Had he yelled about anything that had happened to him—the rapes, the torture? Senara?

“Did I say anything in particular?” he asked her, wincing.

“You would get very frightened and yell things, but they made no sense to me,” she said. “Dr. Enys insisted you attempt to eat every so many hours, but much food was wasted. I had to use lots of firewood to clean your linens and so we are quite low.”

“It’s freezing in here,” he muttered, crossing his arms tightly, frustrated at the failure of his mind. Had he revealed anything of his ordeals to Dr. Enys? Had Morwenna or Dr. Enys changed his clothing or given him a bath? His privacy had been seriously violated and yet he had no recollection of it.

“I must use our remaining firewood sparingly until my friend returns with more. He’s out now, chopping wood for us.”

“Your _friend_?” Osborne asked, blinking with suspicion. “You’ve nothing of the sort.”

“His name is Drake Carne,” she began, a trace of a smile on her pale lips. “He has been bringing me food and firewood for the past couple of weeks and he has been instrumental in helping you heal. You needn’t worry—I have known Drake for years,” she replied with a ghost of a smile, reminiscing. “He has always treated me very kindly and—”

Suddenly Osborne’s eyes were full of ire, of unbridled rage.

“How dare you speak of this… _suitor_ with no shame whatsoever,” Osborne spat bitterly. “Am I to presume you’ve been unfaithful this entire marriage?”

“What are you talking about?!” she shot back quickly, aware of the condescension in his tone. Even so, his earlier uncouth mannerisms and fair face, the festering series of lash wounds that crisscrossed his back and buttocks, and his whimpers of terror throughout the duration of his illness, did not fit the voice and expression that was very much Osborne’s Whitworth’s at the moment. “I was faithful to my husband, in spite of his constant infidelities.”

“Is that right?” he replied, feeling heat spreading in his neck, his teeth locked together in his jaws. Morwenna continued her rant, her face that of disgust and aggravation. 

“Osborne impregnated my own sister, in addition to soliciting prostitutes all over Cornwall. And then, in spite of all the pleasure he’d receive nearly every day, he’d still come home and force himself on me.”

“I fail to see how that relates to—”

“Sir—you owe your very life to the continuous efforts of myself, Dwight Enys _and_ Drake Carne. It is unfortunate that you do not recall all that those men—all that _I_ have done for you. How dare you come into my home and accuse me of such treachery.”


	21. Drake

Osborne was taken aback by Morwenna’s directness. Her intense dark eyes seared right into his own, cutting him deeply like in the nightmares on the island, and his face softened and eyes fell, conceding defeat. In still stubbornly believing that he was not her presumed dead husband, Morwenna was not pulling her punches in telling of her perspective regarding his inexcusable behaviors.

He swallowed loudly and looked again at Morwenna. She was still very angry at his outburst regarding her gentleman caller, not to mention his utter lack of gratitude for what she had done for him this past week. By giving his money to her sister Rowella several times a week, he’d essentially left her with nothing when he disappeared. And now this Drake Carne person had not only been bringing Morwenna provisions, but he'd also assisted in restoring her sick male guest to health.

He did, indeed, owe them his very life. An apology was certainly warranted now. 

“I very much regret my past behavior towards you. I was an awful husband in every way,” he uttered, the look of shame on his face far more powerful than his words. “I thank you for saving my life, more than once.”

He could see Morwenna’s eyes watering now. Would she finally begin to believe he was in fact her husband? 

“Why do you say that?” she asked him. She stood up suddenly and began pacing nervously about the kitchen.

He was taken aback by her odd response, his narrowed eyes following her as she moved.

“What do you mean?”

She could only look at him, her mouth slightly opened, a tear sliding down her cheek.

“Why do you burden yourself with the sins of my late husband? Not once in my four-year marriage did I ever see a hint of remorse for the lies, the adultery, the countless violations. Am I really supposed to believe that in less than two months, that my husband has not only completely changed his appearance but now sees the error of his ways?” 

“I have been through hell,” he said, clenching his teeth. “I have been forced to see my sins, to _live_ them. I apparently almost died from them.”

“I assumed it to be delirium, your insistence that you are Osborne. Perhaps you are still unwell….”

He rolled his eyes now, his apologetic demeanor gone.

“I am perfectly fine,” he said. “and I am your husband. Tell me, how is it that you are unequivocally convinced of my death?”

Morwenna strode right past him with purpose and stood before the front door. She looked back at him, anger burning in her eyes.

“I’ll show you.”

\------------------------------------

“The soil doesn’t look disturbed,” Osborne commented, gaping at his own headstone. It was a large, wide, expensive piece of arched granite, plainly carved with his name, birth date and death date. Morwenna stood a safe distance from him, their eyes both focused on his epitaph. There was no mention of his being a reverend, or being beloved, or anything. Just his name and relevant dates.

_Osborne Whitworth_

_July 31, 1764 - September 6, 1799_

As he stood by his own grave in St. Sawle churchyard in his nightclothes, Ossie began glancing around nervously for signs of townsfolk. Could one of the masked witness women live nearby? Or perhaps be snooping around the grounds, knowing he’d most likely been returned home after his ordeal in the dungeon? 

“A body was never found,” Morwenna replied quietly.

“And yet this somehow convinces you?”

“I have his riding boots and coat, which were found at the bottom of a sheer cliff, and a Bill of Mortality as well,” she replied. “Tell me, what evidence is there to the contrary? A prisoner who looks and acts completely unlike him showing up at my doorstep in the night claiming to be him nearly two months after he’d gone missing?”

“Believe what you must,” he huffed, rolling his eyes. Perhaps in a couple more days, his birthmark would re-emerge and he could show her. For now, she was dead-set on believing he was someone else. 

He glanced around the cemetery. His father William Whitworth had not been buried here, having in fact had been buried tens of miles away near his birthplace. His first wife had been buried elsewhere as well. In death, he was all alone. Not even a bouquet of flowers graced his recent grave. 

He didn’t know what to say to Morwenna as they stood in the cemetery together, peering down at his empty grave. Her inability to recognize him as her husband had given him the opportunity to be privy to her thoughts and feelings on things that he could never have extracted from her as Osborne. 

“I must say, Osborne didn’t seem to be a well-liked man, from what I’ve gathered,” Osborne muttered, wondering how she’d reply.

Morwenna’s eyes did not leave his tombstone.

“He was no man,” she replied. “He was a monster.”

Osborne cringed at the unfiltered harshness of her reply. So this was how she perceived him, deservedly so. Over the course of their ill-fated marriage, he’d maligned her and slapped her and violated her more times than he could count. She’d stood quietly by and had to endure his unending slew of vile, cruel insults to her character, her morals, her looks, and her abilities as a wife and mother. He’d attempted to isolate her, to distance her from friends and family, to lock her away in St. Sawle so she’d be available whenever his needs had to be met. He’d gone so far as to pray for her death during the delivery of his child. She’d no idea what a monster he’d truly been.

He pictured himself in the grave before him, encased in a plain black wooden coffin several feet below a pile of disturbed soil, clothed in an old outfit that had to be specifically tailored to fit his hollowed-out body, his arms crossed over his abdomen in a position of eternal repose. Except that his eyes were open in horror, staring blankly into nothingness, mouth open in a silent scream. His body was being eaten from within, the microscopic creatures within him devouring his flesh, softening the juncture between his cold gray skin and the tissue that lie beneath. All the while his soul was aflame in hell, crying out to God above. 

His eyes began to water as he stood beside his grave, the images of his future swirling around in his brain. In his thirty-five years on earth, he had done enough evil to condemn his soul for hell. His education as a vicar affirmed this. What was he to do now? 

Feeling a tear slip down his cheek, he wiped it away and then began nervously fidgeting with the ties on his dressing-gown. Morwenna was still staring unblinkingly at his grave. Perhaps she was imagining the same postmortem fate for him.

“Might we go back inside now?” he asked quietly, peering over at her.

She looked at him then, at his hands that were fiddling with his dressing-gown, and her jaw dropped.  
As he continued to gape at her, attempting to predict how she would respond to his request, she looked utterly panicked, her eyes staring intensely at his hands and an audible gasp escaping her open mouth. Quickly, she backed away from him, her face that of terror.

Instantly Osborne peered down at his body, alarmed by her visceral response to something. When he didn’t see anything that should have offended in such a way, he turned around to see nothing of importance behind him either. 

“What is wrong with you?” he shouted at her.

By this point, she’d opened the front door and had disappeared inside.

\---------------------------------------

“What was that all about?” Osborne asked demandingly, upon entering Sawle and noticing Morwenna was now seated and staring off into space.

His words seemed to shock her out of some faraway place in her mind, and she turned to him, her eyes widening again as they looked somewhere rather low on his body. 

“The way you touched your dressing-gown—” she began, but cut herself off with an audible gulp.

“I fail to understand the significance.” 

“Of course you do,” she said sympathetically, sighing and allowing her shoulders to relax. “It was something that almost always preceded the….” Her eyes fell then with embarrassment at talking about such a subject with this man. “…with my being forced to—”

“Right,” he quickly said, remembering his past behavior. The trauma of his violations would never leave her, for this simple innocuous behavior had totally terrorized her. His ears felt hot with shame. “No need to explain further.”

\-----------------------------------------

There came a polite knock at the door.

“Who can that be?” Osborne groaned, standing up from the chair he’d planted himself in for the last hour or so. It had been raining for nearly a half-hour now, hardly the time for a visitor.

“I am certain it is my friend Drake Carne,” she replied. “As I said, he has been out chopping firewood.”

“I must speak with this Drake person,” Osborne snarled, heading at a breakneck pace to the door. He pulled it open in a rather brash, undignified way, revealing a lanky brunette man carrying a pile of wood in his arms. He’d seen this man before—he was sure of it. Morwenna had been speaking with him on Hendrawna Beach on the feast day so many months ago now. In fact, had it not been this boy who had been among the three peasants sentenced to hang for the murder of Samuel Phillips? It was too bad that only the Martin boy had to hang. 

Rain was pouring and Drake had been attempting to cover the wood with his jacket to keep the logs dry. He could see no means of transportation for the man—had he walked all this way, in the rain, no less? The man stood up suddenly from his bent posture, his smile widening as he saw Osborne. Surely he’d seen him naked, had violated his privacy in the sanctity of his own home.

“Drake Carne, I presume,” Osborne growled, his teeth gritted with discomfort at the sight of Drake’s peasant clothing and his uneducated air.

“So ye’ve recovered!” the man exclaimed. “’Twas a time or two we thought ye wouldn’t pull through.”

“Right,” Osborne muttered irritably, rolling his eyes. “Thanks be to God for your help,” he added sarcastically.

“Might you allow me passage so that I can begin to dry these?” Drake asked. Osborne blocked the doorway as best he could with his smaller frame.

“You may place the logs there,” he said, indicating the doorstep, “then I must ask you to leave. I will provide for my wife henceforth.”

The wrinkling of Drake’s brow made it clear to Osborne that Drake was also unable to recognize him. The former vicar could not help but smile at his ability to get an instantaneous, telling reaction from this man. _Her friend indeed._

“I, uh, beg your pardon, Sir,” Drake responded, looking confused, “but did ye just say Morwenna is your wife?”

“Why, have you a problem with that?” Osborne replied, his mocking smile growing. 

Drake’s heart fell. So she’d married this man at some point in time and yet had allowed Drake to help her with his recovery to health. Of course, he would have helped with Morwenna’s husband anyway, but she’d not explained her relationship with this man except to say that he had arrived one rainy morning in shackles, had been tortured and starved, and had been delirious.

“No, Sir—I’d simply not realized ye were wed,” Drake muttered, his face reflecting sadness. “I’m sorry that I would disturb thee—”

Morwenna could hear the exchange and stood up, hurrying over to the door.

“He is not my husband,” Morwenna spat, approaching from behind Osborne. Drake’s eyes lit up briefly at seeing his love, but he was still very confused. “You’re well-aware of the nonsensical things he was spouting this past week. He is still delirious, it seems.”

“I _am_ your husband!” Osborne roared. “And it is clear to me that this Drake person is not just your friend. How dare you commit adultery with me lying in the next room.”

“I cannot commit adultery,” she spat. “My husband is dead, thank God.” 

Osborne looked at her with mouth agape, stunned silent. She’d never been one to speak so brazenly, and yet here she was, telling him in the span of a couple of hours today that Osborne Whitworth was a monster and that she thanked God for his death. Her hatred of him emanated from her and yet wasn’t directed at him as he stood before her—she still supposed him to be someone else, to be an imposter.

Morwenna stepped away from the door. “Come in, Drake. Don’t mind him. He’s speaking nonsense.”

Now Osborne was fuming and spun around to face Morwenna’s suitor. Drake and his handful of firewood had somehow snaked past him through the doorway and was now standing in the voluminous foyer. 

“Why in God’s name have you allowed him inside?” Osborne snarled.

“The firewood do need to dry some,” Drake quietly explained. “Won’t burn well soakin’ wet like this.”

“Then put it down and get out of my home,” Osborne hissed.

“ _Your_ home?” Morwenna scoffed. “Drake has been staying here this past week ensuring your survival. His things are here. He has more a right to be here than you do.”


	22. Unwelcome Guest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> VERY IMPORTANT: I inadvertently posted chapter 20 twice, and just yesterday put the correct text for chapter 21 up. So if you have read chapter 20 and saw that chapter 21 was a repeat, please make sure to go back to chapter 21 and read the correct text it now has so this chapter makes sense!
> 
> And please share any and all feedback!

CHAPTER 22

Osborne blinked indignantly, his mouth agape again. _How bloody dare she?!_ How could she be so blind as to not realize she was speaking to her own husband about what looked to be blatant adultery?! How in the world was he supposed to make her understand?

“This is a vicarage, a home for a _vicar_ ,” he snarled. “Neither of you belong here.”

“Sir, I must insist that thee use a gentle tone for the lady,” Drake suggested, attempting to diffuse the situation. “She has been through some very troubling times of late.” 

“And what of _my_ pain and suffering?” Osborne boomed, striking his own chest with his fist. “I have literally been in hell. But then, I return to my _wife_ , who is not only wholly unable to recognize me but is also choosing to cavort with some mere peasant right before my eyes!”

“You know, you’re right about one aspect of my husband,” Morwenna remarked. 

Osborne glared at her suspiciously.

“What’s that?”

“He _is_ in hell, no doubt about it.” This time, the vitriol was directed his way, with Morwenna’s intense eyes struck piercing Osborne’s heart like a barbed stake. He could only blink and say nothing at the verbal assault. Just then, Drake reached out and touched her arm comfortingly—and Osborne gaped as she allowed it, in the midst of her ire, no less!

“Drake, would you accompany me to the drawing room?” Morwenna said, her eyes still destroying Osborne. “I cannot abide this a moment more.”

The pair headed to the drawing room down the wide hallway, leaving Osborne stunned in the center of the expansive, empty foyer. What was he to do? It was clear he was not welcome here. Not only that, but the peasant boy seemed to have cast a spell on his timid wife. Their body language struck him in a place that sickened him. Never had his interactions with women involved such… what could he call that, those private looks, those welcome touches? He’d no idea what that even was. 

How could Morwenna do this to him? How could she behave in such a way in front of his very eyes? He was a vicar, a man of God, and she was openly mocking their Godly union, her solemn vow of fidelity to him, right in front of him! _She must truly believe I am not Osborne. Is there no way to prove I am her husband, and thus rid St. Sawle of this peasant boy for good?_

It was not only about what he perceived to be a flagrant disregard for their marriage. Morwenna was… different with the peasant, that was for certain. She was like a different woman, openly interacting with the world, with a _man._

\----------------------------------------------------

Osborne stood silently in the foyer, hearing the sound of the settee sinking under the weight of two bodies. So Morwenna would allow this other man to take a seat right beside her? He had to investigate further without their knowledge.

Carefully he removed his shoes, placing them off to the side, and moved as stealthily as he was able to the entrance to the drawing room. Once there, he stood just outside the entrance and leaned against the wall, turning his head to listen.

\------------------------------------------

Morwenna and Drake sat side by side on the settee, their thighs barely brushing against each other. Their slowly blossoming bond had only strengthened since the arrival of her sick male visitor. Upon allowing the strange man into her home a week ago, Morwenna had been concerned that fate was directing her away from Drake, when it fact, it had brought them closer together!

Soon after Osborne had begun displaying signs of his sickness, yelling and thrashing about in bed, Morwenna had feared for both her safety and his own. When Drake had predictably come by later that day with food and firewood, she had showed him her guest and explained how he’d arrived at her doorstop starved, covered in mud, and shackled. Drake had then graciously suggested that he stay at the vicarage to help her take care of her sick guest. 

And so it had come to be. 

Drake had remained in the children’s’ room each night, ensuring that he kept a respectful distance from the still very traumatized Morwenna. And slowly, very slowly, he had seen her warm to his closeness, to the unavoidable contact they shared as they changed bedlinens, stoked the fires, and cooked meals together. Ever since Osborne’s funeral and accelerated by Drake’s increased presence at the vicarage, the pair now seemed to have reestablished a baseline of familiarity with each other, a familiarity Morwenna had never achieved with her late husband Osborne.

“I’ve no idea,” Drake stated, continuing the conversation they’d begun while Osborne was left behind in stunned silence. “It do make little sense, considering.”

The blacksmith looked toward the entrance to the drawing room and saw nothing. Perhaps their guest had gone back upstairs to his makeshift chamber.

“What a horrible man,” Morwenna said with a shudder. “It is clear to me that I made a mistake in taking him in.”

“Do not regret good deeds, ‘Wenna,” Drake said. “’Tis not your fault that he behave such a way.”

“I do not trust him in this house. What if he attacks us? What if he—” 

“If ye do desire that I remove him from the home, ye need only say the word.”

“I just don’t understand it!” she spat, her voice getting louder. “We spent an entire week bringing him back from the brink of death. Why is he so bloody ungrateful?”

“Perhaps he is jealous of what we have together,” Drake suggested, a naughty smile on his face. “Mayhap he wished to claim you for his own.”

“If that is true, he is wasting his time,” she said solemnly, timidly placing her hand on his hand. “My heart belongs to you.”

Osborne blinked rapidly, his mouth agape as he took in the conversation about him. So they wanted him out of the vicarage. With a man to aid her in his removal, there was a very real chance they could shove him out the door and lock it. How would that look to the Truro spy women who were waiting to see him fail, so the gossip could begin? That would not do at all.

It was not only that aspect of their conversation that irked him. It was the tenderness the peasant boy displayed while talking with her, the soft intimacy in his voice and her incredible response to it. 

He could stand it no longer. Swallowing more loudly than he would have liked, he stepped away from the entrance and headed back down the hallway to return to his chamber.

\--------------------------------

As Osborne retreated quickly and quietly back up the stairs, Drake grinned at Morwenna and leaned toward his love, hoping to share their first kiss on the lips for many years. At first Morwenna allowed him to approach, then she abruptly moved away.

“I can’t,” she said, tears filling her eyes. “I’m sorry, Drake. I’m not ready.”

“’Twas my fault to rush thee,” he said, falling to his knees in front of her. “I’m sorry, ‘Wenna. Please forgive me.”

“You are so very patient with me and I cannot be sorry enough for not being what you deserve. You deserve a woman who will kiss you and touch you without fear.”

“I only want _you_ , in whate’er condition you believe yourself to be in. And whate’er condition that is is perfection to me.”

“Surely you can’t mean that.”

“But I do, ‘Wenna. What we have is pure, and true. Remember those days on Hendrawna Sands with Geoffrey Charles? The cove? I know we could have that again someday.”

“It’s not so simple anymore. I am… damaged. I have lost my son. Now we have this man upstairs who is judging us, threatening us…” 

“Just say the word and I will force him to leave.”

“I don’t want you getting hurt,” Morwenna cried. “It is obvious that he has a terrible temper and nothing to lose. Perhaps there is another way….”

\-------------------------------------

The delicious odor of cooking food wafted upstairs, causing Osborne to lurch to his feet from his position at his desk in his chambers. It would be the first real recalled meal he would be eating since before his disappearance. Would Morwenna and her suitor be eating alone and forcing him to merely smell the food? Had Morwenna hired a chef, though she’d claimed they had no funds? He had to investigate further.

Upon removing his shoes and creeping down the stairs in his stockings, Osborne carefully made his way towards the kitchen.

Drake and Morwenna stood side by side in the food preparation area, their backs facing him, with Morwenna chopping up various ingredients and the boy carrying them over to a large vat in the hearth and depositing them into what appeared to be a thick steaming stew. 

During his years of marriage with Morwenna, they’d had chefs prepare their meals. Morwenna had always taken her meals in her chamber—never in the main dining area. Would he even be invited to partake in this food? Would she and her suitor take the prepared food up to her room, thus willing him to starve yet again?

Osborne’s stomach growled loudly and he blanched, quickly positioning himself behind a large support beam. Had they heard the sound?

“Ah, ‘Wenna, be this not the life?” Drake said, chuckling. “Side by side with thee, preparin’ a nourishing meal with our own hands?”

“It is,” Morwenna replied. “I wish it would never end.”

“Me either. Do it not make your mouth water?” he said. “This may well be the best meal I’ve ever had.”

“Mine too.”

 _How dare she_ , Osborne mused, from his position behind the beam. Their chef had often made appetizing meals—his formerly large belly could vouch for that. In those days, all the Whitworth family had had to do was sit down at the table to consume the food. Making a meal seemed utterly tedious. Osborne peeked out from behind the beam to watch the exchange.

Now Morwenna was cutting into a rather large item resembling the leg of an animal. Where had they gotten meat?

“D’ye need me to help thee with that?” Drake offered. “I can remove the bone so it will be easier to dice.”

“Thank you, Drake,” Morwenna replied. 

Drake moved the leg-like item in front of him, and Morwenna handed him a large knife. Osborne could not help but swallow. What if Morwenna were to use this knife on him? It was far larger than Senara’s knife, a blade that had deeply injured his hand.

Now Drake was carving the meat off of the bone. Morwenna stood beside him, watching him carefully as she proceeded to chop through a head of cabbage.

“Drake Carne, you surprise me,” Morwenna suddenly spoke.

Morwenna’s shoulder was within an inch of Drake’s arm, and she was not shrinking away or leaning in the opposite direction. They seemed to very much enjoy each other’s company.

“How so?” the lad answered.

“You’ve much skill with the butcher’s knife,” she said. “Perhaps you’ve missed your calling.”

“I’ve more skill _makin’_ butcher’s knives,” he replied, laughing. “In fact, this blade do a poor job cuttin’. Now, were I to sharpen this, the flesh would fall from the bone like butter.”

“I would like to see you at your craft,” she replied. “I imagine you are skilled indeed. I treasure the pendant you made me.”

“I am so glad it please you. You are very welcome back at my smithy,” he replied. “Now that your guest is well enough, we’ve no reason to stay here. Come with me, back to Truro.”

“Should we not eat first?” she said. “I’d hate to see all our fine work gone to waste.”

With that, Drake and Morwenna both began to laugh.

A pendant?! Osborne had never heard of this pendant before. He was also getting terribly agitated watching his wife interact with the peasant boy in such a happy, natural manner. He turned to head back up the stairs. He would find this pendant and rid the house of it.


	23. Threatened

Osborne opened the door to Morwenna’s chamber. Where would he begin to look for this damned pendant? How large was it? What color was it? He’d no idea what it even looked like, but he was determined to find it.

He walked over to Morwenna’s little vanity where she often sat to apply the expensive perfumes he’d lavished upon her. There it was, lying right on top of a bible, a pendant clearly depicting a mother and baby.

He blinked with irritation, affronted that Morwenna had simply left it lying out in the open.

If he were to dispose of it, she’d immediately notice its absence.

Osborne lifted up the pendant and held it close to his face, glaring at it. The woman was crudely fashioned but did resemble Morwenna and the angle of her nose and chin. The baby was most certainly meant to be John Conan. Why had this stupid boy made her such a gift, depicting her and her son by another man? More importantly, _when_ had he given her this gift?

He sat down at Morwenna’s desk, studying the pendant. It looked to be made of pewter, a rather expensive metal for a poor blacksmith to use. Clearly much care had been put into creating it. 

What was he to do? He couldn’t throw the pendant away—he couldn’t even address the existence of it because then it would be obvious that he had been listening to them downstairs. He’d have to allow it to remain in the home and would have to attempt to direct her affections from the boy in some other way. This natural fondness his wife had for the peasant would have to end sooner rather than later.

Just then he heard the creaking of the steps as someone ascended them. Panicking, he dropped the pendant back on the desk and quickly left her chambers. By the time the top of the head of the approaching person was visible, Osborne was back in the upstairs hallway.

“Dinner is served,” Morwenna said coldly. “You are welcome to join us.”

“ _Us_ ,” Osborne huffed. “I presume the peasant boy is still here.”

“No one is forcing you to stay here, you do realize.”

“I _live_ here,” he snapped, stomping over to the edge of the steps, to observe her already descending them again.

\--------------------------------------------

Morwenna moved through the grand foyer into the kitchen and took her place next to Drake at the dinner table. The only other place setting that had been added to the table was a couple of feet down the table from the two of them, and closer to Drake. The food smelled delicious—cabbage soup, some kind of venison dish, and even spiced pudding.

“Is that venison I smell?” Osborne remarked as he approached the table, finding himself smiling in spite of himself. It _was_ his first major meal since before his disappearance, at least, his first remembered meal. But then, he looked at the pair, sitting so very close together. Were they not to refrain from showing such affection in front of him, no less?!

“’Tis venison indeed—freshly prepared,” Drake replied with pride, having already begun eating. “From the grounds, in fact, just behind the church.”

Osborne narrowed his eyes at the smithy.

“Am I to understand _you_ provided it?”

“Aye,” Drake said, far less anxious than he had been earlier at the door. “’Wenna and I do gut and butcher it just yesterday.”

Osborne made a confused face at Morwenna. 

“You’ve no ability to butcher,” he remarked.

“I in fact have some past experience with it,” she replied, looking over at Drake, “but Drake helped me immensely.”

There was an exchange of smiles between the pair. Osborne sighed irritably and took his place at the table. So she knew how to carve meat, how to sink a knife into flesh. _Ugh, wonderful._

“Have you no propriety?” Osborne instantly snarled at Drake. “Stuffing your mouth before you’ve said grace. Uncouth peasant.”

Drake made a face but suppressed his reaction with a quick glance at Morwenna, who was shaking her head slowly.

“I apologize, Sir; I mean no harm by it.”

“Clearly you are too busy seducing my wife right in front of me to realize what you’ve done,” the former vicar growled. 

Drake stiffened at the comment, but Morwenna tempered his anger by tentatively placing her hand on his.

Osborne’s eyes widened with horror at this action. Morwenna had never made a move to touch _him_. In fact, she shrunk away every single time he so much as attempted to touch her. Had Morwenna been replaced by a doppelganger? Suddenly his appetite had become greatly diminished.

“The Lord God sees your sins,” Osborne spat, eyeing Morwenna and Drake’s hands as he held a finger skyward. “Such… blatantly licentious behavior is only permitted within the context of marriage.”

“And the Lord God sees your ungrateful heart,” Morwenna retorted venomously. She stared Osborne down with an immense amount of hatred and scorn. “We saved your very life. You can be assured: God will judge us all, some more harshly than others.” 

The words were enough to make Osborne’s pulse quicken, his hands sweat, and his mouth dry as cotton. He could not eat in their presence. It was as if he was a ghost observing his very wife moving on from him with a man she not only tolerated, but enjoyed. 

Osborne stood up abruptly, and as they watched him carefully, he used a bare hand to scoop up a handful of venison from the serving dish. His face twisted in annoyance, he hastily left the kitchen with the handful of meat and proceeded back upstairs with not another word.

\----------------------------------------------

Osborne plopped down heavily at his desk, considering. The looks Morwenna exchanged with that boy, the responses to his touches, had made him highly jealous. No woman had ever looked at him, had ever responded to his touch in such a way, not even Rowella. He could attempt to get back into his wife’s good graces, convince her that the Carne boy was trouble. He could do something for her that Drake could never do—perhaps that could sway her. But what might that be?

Morwenna’s behavior offended him greatly, being as he’d observed her seemingly suppressing her fear and timidity with the peasant boy, allowing his advances with utmost calm—even going so far as to encourage them!

What power and influence could he display, to redirect Morwenna’s attentions to him instead? He did not necessarily want Morwenna, but he certainly didn’t like someone else toying with his wife. The way she looked at that Carne boy was something he now coveted. 

Osborne thought of the pendant the smithy had fashioned for her, lying openly in the other room. Why had he created such a thing, a detailed, painstaking rendering of a woman who was off-limits to him and her son by another man?

 _Lord God in Heaven_ , he mused, blanching. _Might John Conan be in fact the Carne boy’s son?_

Unlike George Warleggan and his own paternity doubts, Osborne was far more easily distracted. He peered over at his hand, at the mouthwatering handful of rich venison that filled his nostrils with a delicious odor.

Before he could ponder the meaning for the pendant any further, Osborne promptly lifted the handful of venison to his face and shoved as much of the delicious meat into his mouth as he could handle. It tasted heavenly and he immediately regretted leaving the kitchen and the promise for a second or even third helping. He shut his eyes and let the meat sit on his tongue, breathing in the scent of perfectly cooked venison. It was the best food he had ever tasted.

He would not confront the pair tonight about his suspicions, he decided. If he confronted them now, he might very well be banished from Sawle into the cold night. He’d wait until later, perhaps tomorrow, in the hope that he could at least possibly return to the kitchen for leftovers tonight.

After licking his hand clean of all traces of the venison, Osborne pulled out a piece of blank paper and grabbed his quill. He would attempt to steer Morwenna’s affections from the poor peasant boy with his plan. His bandaged hand made it nearly impossible to get a proper grip on the writing utensil, and so it took him far longer than usual simply to begin writing the letter.

\----------------------------------

It was early the next morning when Osborne descended the stairs. Before going downstairs, he’d glanced into the various bedrooms on the second floor. The bedding in the children’s room had been clearly disturbed—was that where Drake Carne had been staying? 

He sniffed the air, attempting to detect that metallic filthy blacksmith smell the boy emanated. He could not hear their open flirtations echoing through the house. Perhaps the Carne boy was chopping more firewood or doing some task that required him to leave the house. All that mattered was that Morwenna was most likely alone somewhere in the home, at least temporarily. He had to make the most of his short moment with her before the boy could return.

Soon thereafter, he reached the kitchen. Morwenna was standing near a pile of vegetables assembled on a table, using a knife to mince them.  
“Good morning,” Osborne announced, clasping his hands behind him smugly.

Morwenna spun around, clearly disturbed by his intrusion.

“What do you want?” she hissed, her eyes wild and frightened.

“I in fact want nothing from you. You needn’t fear me, my dear,” he began, smiling easily as he spread his arms in surrender. “I come in goodwill, desiring only to speak with you about something that will surely improve your opinion of myself.”

“Stay away from me,” she cautioned as she turned around slowly, producing the long knife she’d been holding to chop the vegetables. It gleamed silver in the bright sunlight of the expansive room. A pang of pain shot through his hand at the sight; he’d had quite enough of knives.

Again he raised his hands higher, taking another step toward her.

“I will not hesitate to kill you,” Morwenna hissed, her chest rising and falling dramatically with each breath. “Stay back.”

“I sense that your lover is not with us currently,” he remarked. “Chopping wood, I imagine? Or perhaps gathering flowers to disperse onto the mattress you will soon sully.”

“Why are you still here?” she retorted, baring her teeth. “We have saved you from certain death and you are now free—free to move on with your life. To find your family again. To go back to your home.” 

“ _You_ are my family,” he said, having stopped in place. “You and the children. And _this_ is my home.” He could see that Morwenna was still tightly gripping the knife—she was still afraid. “I wish to repair our fractured relationship.”

“What relationship?” Morwenna replied. “I still do not even know your real name.”

Now he rolled his eyes.

“You know who I am,” he said. Now he eyed her up lasciviously from head to toe, licking his lips. “Your body knows who I am.”

She looked disgusted at the visual assault.

“What are you talking about?”

“Look at you, cowering away from me,” Osborne replied. “This is just as it’s always been between us. You could not so much as _stand_ for me to touch you throughout our entire marriage. And yet, you and that Carne boy—”

“He treats me kindly,” she interrupted. “He respects my wishes. He _loves_ me.” 

Osborne’s grin of kindness morphed into a baring of teeth.

“Is that all it takes to turn you into a wanton harlot—kindness and respect?” he shot back. “Or does Mr. Carne have the devil inside him?”

“Get out,” she whispered, eyes glassy and dangerous. “Get out of my house.”

He looked at her with quizzical eyes, taken aback by her bold request.

“Get out, or I will kill you.”

Now it was his wife who began to approach _him_. She held the knife firmly in her right hand, her knuckles white as she approached him, her eyes murderous. 

Now it was he who found himself cowering away from her, holding his arms up in surrender as he backed up slowly. Chills ran through his body at the realization that Morwenna was leading him backwards down the hallway to the back door. If he were to be forced outside in this weather wearing only his indoor clothing, he would surely catch pneumonia again.

He thought of his act of power, his act of influence that would sway this whole incident in favor of him. It would be the act that he hoped would save him now.


	24. A Proposition

“I’ve something to tell you—what I came to speak with you about,” Osborne said to Morwenna, his voice high-pitched and fearful. “I intend to have my mother deliver the children back to us.”

As he’d hoped, Morwenna stopped leading him backwards, looking at him with puzzlement instead.

“What are you talking about?”

“My mother—Lady Whitworth,” he began. “Sarah, Anne, John Conan. I have been penning a letter to her. She will bring our children back to us. Is it not your desire to see your son again? _Our_ son?”

“It is my desire, but I fail to understand how it is that _you_ will—”

“John Conan _is_ my son, is he not?”

It probably wasn’t the best time for him to confront his wife about the paternity of John Conan, but he couldn’t help it. He’d failed to sleep all night considering the ramifications of it.

Now Morwenna frowned at him, her face serious and grave. He swallowed. He’d picked a particularly bad time to bring this up, that he could see now. 

“You stand here before me, pretending to be my late husband,” Morwenna growled. “Yet, surely if you were he, you could not help but acknowledge the seed that was forced inside me nearly every night of my first year of marriage.”

“So, you were not intimate with the Carne boy?” Osborne muttered quietly, alarmed at her aggression.

Now Morwenna was livid, and again moved toward him with the knife.

“How dare you,” she hissed, baring her teeth. “How dare you insinuate that I was anything but a faithful wife to my utterly unworthy husband.” Drake must have sharpened the knife the past evening, for it was razor sharp and perfectly reflective in the narrow hallway. “I must insist you leave my home— _now_.”

Now Osborne was speechless, his jaw dropping with shock as she backed him up against the rear door. He’d been thoroughly intimidated and emasculated by Senara, who’d been quite tall for a woman and clearly older than him, but Morwenna was certainly holding her own in effectively threatening him.

“Open it,” she growled, her face and demeanor more frightening than he’d ever imagined it could be.

“I misspoke,” Osborne suddenly whimpered, his face sheepish and fearful. “I-I did not mean to insinuate that you—”

“Get out.”

His backside was now pushed up against the door and Morwenna’s knife was angled right at his neck, her grasp white-knuckled and firm. If he did not stop her from ejecting him from the house, he would either die of pneumonia or be subjected to gossip and most likely a continuation of his torture. His heart thudded in his chest at the sight of his quiet, dutiful wife Morwenna driven to murderous rage.

Suddenly he fell to his knees before her. He gaped up at her, his face that of complete subservience. He clasped his hands together at his waist, watching her expression carefully, but her rage did not fade.

“Please let me send the letter to my mother,” he begged her. “If you cast me outside, I most assuredly will not be able to get our children back.” 

Morwenna took several steps back away from him. Her desire to see her son again was very strong, and if this man could somehow convince her awful mother-in-law to return the children, it would have been worth the awkwardness of her encounters with this odd stranger.

“Please let me try. It is the least I can do to repay you for all that you have done for me.”

Morwenna grimaced, seeming to consider. Osborne could only stare up at her from his position on the floor, looking utterly sorrowful.

“This is your last chance,” she said. “One more cruel word, one more insinuation, and you will be forced to leave. Do you understand?”

“I do,” he muttered, bowing his head contritely, hands clasped in front of him. This was his last chance. Would his mother read his letter and come to Sawle? If she didn’t, he’d surely be unable to make it another day in the presence of Morwenna and her suitor. He’d mutter some callous insult and would end up outside in the cold, his failure visible to the Truro masked ladies and the three smugglers who’d kidnapped him.

At his reply, Morwenna took a step to the side, wordlessly moving her knife to indicate he could pass. To look at him, he appeared to be utterly ashamed of himself.

“Thank you, Morwenna,” Osborne murmured quietly, looking up at her, though his head remained bowed. He stood up slowly and carefully so as not to startle her into stabbing him. It made him appear quite pitiful, but he had to tread lightly now.

Osborne continued to cringe as he sheepishly moved past her and the knife to return to his chambers.

\---------------

It was shortly after noon when Dr. Enys stopped by Sawle vicarage to check on his patient. At this point, Osborne had sent the letter to his mother and was awaiting her arrival from the safety of his chamber. He’d heard Drake enter the house with another armful of firewood, reminding him of his failings as a provider, and stayed put. Surely his mother would make everything better, would bring his children back to him and would tear Morwenna’s affections from the smithy who could do nothing more than collect basic survival items and make meaningless trinkets.

“Dr. Enys,” Osborne said as he stood up from his chair, attempting a smile but wholeheartedly unhappy that the man had been treating him without his consent. Many months back, Dr. Enys had been the man that had strongly requested he abstain from intercourse with his own wife, the man who refused to have her committed. Why had he helped him? 

“Hello,” Dwight Enys said, taking a seat on his bed. “How are you feeling today? You are looking much better than the last time I visited.”

“Yesterday I seemed to… come out of whatever that was. What happened to me? I remember none of what transpired.”

“So you’ve no memory of this past week?” Dr. Enys asked. “None whatsoever?”

“No,” he admitted. “Please, enlighten me.”

“I would be glad to. Mrs. Whitworth called upon me, a week ago or so, because she was concerned about your behavior. You were abed, sweating profusely and flailing about, speaking of terrible things.”

“So she called upon not one but _two_ men to enter her home,” he muttered. “How utterly inappropriate, I must say."

“That is certainly not the case here, Sir. I can vouch for Mrs. Whitworth’s virtue,” Dr. Enys replied. “She is a woman alone, in her home with a strange, very sick man.”

“I beg your pardon!” Osborne said with a humph.

“What I could not figure out was the source of rather large dried blood stain on this bed,” the physician said, touching the mattress as he changed the subject. “Do you recall the source of this blood? I determined it was not fresh.”

“No,” Osborne muttered, making a face of distaste. No way did he want to explain the assault to Dr. Enys.

“I see,” Dr. Enys replied. “The bloodstain notwithstanding, it was clear to me that due to your obvious malnutrition, festering wounds, high fever, and serious case of pneumonia, that you were delirious. Unfortunately, there isn’t much to be done about the delirium except to treat the causes, of which you had many. You were kept cool and hydrated and your clothes and linens had to be changed often because you were sweating profusely. At one point you were fixated on the pain of your experiences and so I administered a drink to help you sleep.”

“What did I say?” Osborne asked insistently. 

“Before I begin to tell you, I want to know more about the context of what you said. Mrs. Whitworth and Mr. Carne were clearly confused by your language, but as a victim of torture and starvation myself, I am well aware of the trauma that must have been inflicted upon you.”

“I cannot bear it any longer—I must know what I said. Tell me.”

“You insisted you were Osborne Whitworth, first and foremost.”

“Which I am.”

Without warning, Dr. Enys stood up and laid his hand on his forehead. He pulled his hand back without revealing his findings.

“Right,” he continued, unconvinced. “As for other things you said, you would mostly say single words or phrases. “You would yell various iterations of God, such as ‘Lord God almighty’, as well as mutterings of sin and such. Can you put any of these things into context?”

“What if I don’t wish to discuss it with you,” Osborne snapped back, feeling utterly humiliated. He sat back down at his desk, crossing his arms.

“Then you don’t have to,” Dr. Enys said with a sympathetic smile. “However, I believe you have suffered great trauma and will not begin to heal until you have addressed it properly. You were clearly starved and beaten. And based on the nature of many of your comments, I presume you were also r—”

“You needn’t say it aloud,” Osborne interrupted, wincing. His eyes reflected embarrassment, and his head fell.

“So you were—?”

“Yes,” Osborne replied, swallowing loudly. He was unable to look up. “Repeatedly.”

“I presumed that might be the case. As such, you may have internal injuries, possibly explaining your persistent fever. If you have an infection, it needs to be—”

“You have seen more than enough of me for a lifetime,” Ossie snapped. 

“I am a doctor,” was the reply. “It is my job to—”

“I would rather take my chances, thank you very much.”

“I will respect your wishes. However, if you change your mind, I can examine you and treat you for any unseen wounds you may have. No one else need be present.”

With that, Dr. Enys turned away from him, preparing to depart his room. Osborne wasn’t ready for him to leave. He uncrossed his arms and sat ramrod straight in bed, speaking loudly to the physician.

“Why do you refuse to believe that I am Osborne?”

Now Dr. Enys was intrigued, and turned around.

“I had not treated Reverend Whitworth before his… disappearance, and so I was not privy to whatever distinguishing markings or scars he may have had. You have been very consistent in your assertion that you be called Osborne, and so I had been obliging you, if only to calm you.”

“Ugh,” the vicar groaned. “Morwenna and her peasant boy refuse to believe I am who I say I am as well.”

“I would venture the reason for their doubts is that no one knows what happened between Osborne’s disappearance and your sudden appearance. It had been presumed that he had died.”

“I am very much alive,” Osborne replied. “As you can see.”

“If you wish to discuss the nature of your disappearance with me, your words will stay within the confines of this room. As a physician, I am bound by a vow of secrecy.”

“Ha,” Osborne said with a sneer. “As a vicar, I was bound to secrecy as well, but I broke that vow daily.”

“I can assure you that I have not and will not break this most sacred vow.”

“What is the incentive to keep those vows, hmm? _I_ have not been punished for breaking my vows,” Osborne said with a smirk. 

Dr. Enys smiled knowingly back at him.

“I would argue that you have, based on what I have seen.”

“What happened to me had nothing to do with my breaking my vows.”

“How can you be sure?”

Osborne looked positively arrogant at his reply.

“Believe me, it was made _abundantly_ clear to me that I was being punished for raping my—”

The vicar’s smugness disappeared in an instant upon his inadvertent admission. He winced then and shut his eyes, waiting for Dr. Enys’s surely condescending reply. It was Dr. Enys who had initially been made aware of Osborne’s treatment of his wife and had heavily insisted upon his abstinence. 

“I see,” Dr. Enys replied. “Tell me—do you believe it to be unjust?”

“What—my punishment?” Osborne asked.

Dr. Enys nodded solemnly. 

“You, more than most, were aware of the goings-on here at Sawle,” Osborne said. “You can decide for yourself if what happened to me was just.”

A period of heavy silence followed. Dr. Enys seemed to be a good and fair man, but he had somehow elicited information Osborne had not been prepared to share.

“If you were able to identify the people that did this to you, would you seek to have them arrested?”

“I would have to speak of what they did to me, would I not?”

“You would.”

“Then no.”

“I can believe that you are indeed Osborne Whitworth, but that you have been inexorably altered by your traumatic experience. If you wish to come forward to reclaim your identity, I can vouch for your change of behavior, for I have been a victim of torture and have evaluated many others in the same situation. However, with that being said, I would have to know more specifics about your… ordeal, and you might have to speak of these specifics to the courts as well.”

“I can’t do that,” Osborne whined. 

“You don’t have to make that decision immediately,” Dr. Enys replied. “Would you like me to talk to Mrs. Whitworth about my assertion that you are—”

“Dr. Enys!” 

Both Osborne and Dwight jumped at the sound of fast-approaching footfalls heading up the stairs, promptly followed by loud, insistent knocks upon Osborne's door.

"Dr. Enys, you are needed in Truro. It's Arthur Solway—he's been gravely injured."

Instantly Dr. Enys stood up. He looked back at Osborne.

“We can speak of this later, if you wish.”

With that, Dr. Enys hastily left Osborne’s room.


	25. Anticipation

CHAPTER 25

It had been several hours and there had still been no word regarding the status of Arthur Solway, Rowella’s husband. Osborne had a very negative opinion of the ginger extortionist and did not care about the sour-faced librarian’s fate. Perhaps this was God’s retribution for Rowella’s participation—nay, her _instigation_ —of his entire torturous ordeal. He would have to exact his own revenge on her sooner or later; that was for certain.

Morwenna had spent the day pacing anxiously in the foyer, awaiting news on Arthur’s health. Drake had stayed with her, and Osborne had taken to his chambers for the remainder of the day.

It was late in the evening when Osborne heard the knock at the door. He leapt out of his chair and hastily descended the steps, to find his wife standing before the door, her face knotted with worry and concern. Drake remained close beside her, looking quite sympathetic.

Morwenna opened the door to find a man holding a letter.

“Do you bring news of Arthur Solway?” she said, gaping at him.

“It’s from Lady Whitworth, Madam,” the man said, handing her the letter. 

When she closed the door, she saw that Osborne was standing on the landing at the bottom of the steps. Quickly he approached the pair by the door, his eyes wide with anticipation.

“What does it say?” he demanded, hands on his hips.

Morwenna took the letter and unfolded it carefully. Her face was unreadable as she scanned through the handwriting, Drake’s close proximity to her blocking Osborne’s view of the text.

“The letter states that she will arrive tomorrow morning,” she said, grimacing. Before she could say anything further, Osborne snatched the letter from her hands. 

_Morwenna,_

_I will be by early tomorrow to resolve this issue once and for all. If you are not present upon my arrival, then I will take my leave._

_Lady Whitworth_

He read it carefully in her perfect cursive and came to the same conclusion. There was nothing indicating that the children would be returned, but simply that she would be by. Interestingly, she had addressed the letter to Morwenna, in spite of his penning it and signing it as such.

The details of the letter or lack thereof did not sway him, however. He turned to Morwenna and beamed.

“Did I not tell you!” Osborne exclaimed. “Our children are as good as home!”

Morwenna couldn’t help but smile at this man for his excitement over something she so hoped for herself. It was a smile of pity, but a smile nonetheless. Being positioned behind her, Drake did not see this smile, nor was it directed at him.

Osborne’s mouth went slightly agape to be the recipient of such a gesture—it caught him off-guard. Never had he received any kind of genuine smile from his wife. His breath caught in his throat. The feeling her smile gave him was nothing short of surreal, a kind of heady satisfaction. Perhaps the tides were already turning. Had this been what he had been missing his whole life?

Unfortunately, Morwenna’s startling smile was brief. She couldn’t help but feel skepticism about what this imposter could do to convince Lady Whitworth to give up her grandchildren. Sadly for Osborne, her smile faded as soon as it had appeared. 

Drake came up beside Morwenna, grinning as well. 

“What fortuitous news!” he admitted. “’Wenna, I do pray every night for this.”

Osborne rolled his eyes. 

“Perhaps we should not get our hopes up,” Morwenna stated. “There is no mention of her bringing the children when she comes.”

“I made it abundantly clear that my sole reason for writing the letter was to have the children returned,” Osborne replied, seething. “Why would she travel all this way to disobey my order?”

“ _Your order_?” Morwenna said, seeming to be amused by his rage of emotions. “She is merely toying with us—with _me_. She knows how very much I wish to see the children and wants to taunt me. Do you really believe Lady Whitworth will sign the children over to a stranger?”

Osborne stood frozen in front of her, his face twisted with barely repressed ire, finding it more and more difficult to understand how this woman refused to believe he was her husband. He stroked his hair, disappointed that it had not retained its curliness.

“You know, I spoke with Dr. Enys at length this morning, and he believes me to be Osborne,” Osborne stated matter-of-factly. “He would have discussed this with you, were it not for your clumsy brother-in-law….”

“It’s been nearly eight hours since news of his injury reached us. Surely something must be known by now,” Morwenna exclaimed, abruptly changing the subject.

“I’ve been watching out for Dr. Enys since he left,” Drake replied, looking at Morwenna. “He’s not come by, nor do he send a messenger.”

“Perhaps I should go to Rowella’s house,” Morwenna muttered, looking fearful. “She may be in need of help.”

“Our children, _Wife_ , are being returned to us tomorrow,” Osborne announced in a loud voice. “Why would you wish to miss such an auspicious occasion?”

Morwenna visibly cringed at his statement, and was immediately comforted by the smithy. Drake touched Morwenna on her elbow, exchanging a look with her that resembled pity. She gave him a small smile of gratitude in reply. It was enough to make Osborne feel physically ill.

\--------------------------------------------------

Drake and Morwenna sat in the drawing room, which was thankfully free of their unwelcome guest. Ever since Morwenna had threatened their formerly sick guest with a knife, he’d controlled his tongue far better in ensuing conversations, in spite of his expressions of barely repressed rage. In fact, he’d taken to remaining in his chambers for most of the day today, including at dinnertime, when he’d simply taken a heaping portion of food from the table and brought it wordlessly back upstairs.

“D’ye truly believe Lady Whitworth will not bring the children back to thee?” Drake asked.

“I do,” Morwenna muttered, her face reflecting despair. “In fact, I rather hope she does not come at all.”

“Why d’ye say that?” Drake said, clearly confused. “Ye’ve told me how much ye wish to see John Conan….”

“In fact, I wish for nothing more than to see him,” Morwenna replied. “I would do anything just to hold him one more time.”

“What if that man convinces Lady Whitworth that he is her son?”

“He will not,” she replied with a shake of the head. She then looked thoughtful. “But if he could convince her he was Osborne, I would have John Conan back in my arms. My sweet baby…”

“Mayhap tomorrow do bring good news for thee,” Drake interrupted, noticing her consideration of the matter. “Is it not possible she could have been convinced by his letter?”

“Her coming here will be a mere taunt. It is telling that she wrote her reply to _me_ , rather than to Osborne. She does not believe him to be alive either.”

“Tis hard to say from such a short letter,” he said with a shrug. “What if she brings the children?”

“Then I would be very surprised,” Morwenna answered. “Though, when she realizes that this… imposter is not her son, I wager that she will not only refuse me visitation but will also prevent me from saying goodbye to my baby!”

With that, she began to cry. Drake wrapped his arms around her as she sobbed, her body heaving with sorrow. He stared out the window at the full moon, his face grave and determined. 

\-------------------------------

Osborne sat in his chambers, eating the delicious food his wife and her suitor had cooked. Even so, his mind wandered to thoughts of Morwenna and the man who’d been by her side since the very first day he’d come out of his delirious state. He’d seen this man at various social functions and had never noticed the glances or private moments this peasant must have shared with his wife. Now, things were reaching a turning point. If he failed to get the children back, Morwenna would leave—he was certain of it. It was a miracle she had not left Sawle yet, if only to help her sister with Arthur; surely it was the hope his mother’s reply had given her.

What could he say to his mother, to convince her to return the children? He knew he looked quite different than before—thinned out and far more attractive, he mused—but all the alterations to his personality that had affected him in his time of torture had already begun fading away. His temper had been heavily restrained during his time of punishment but was starting to return to its former intensity, goaded by the stress his wife’s dalliance was having on him. Even so, he was able to understand his limitations and how he had been perceived by others. He was now very much aware that Morwenna had never loved him. He could now presume he’d never loved anyone, in turn. He was now aware of how physically unattractive he had been, how fat and heavy and misshapen his body was. And he was certainly aware of how much more Morwenna preferred the Carne boy’s company to his own.

The behavior of Morwenna and her suitor towards each other was wholly foreign to him and yet enticing. They were as one, a unit that worked seamlessly together, coming together for mutual support and understanding. He had already witnessed moments of the Carne boy comforting and reassuring Morwenna and he had seen moments of Morwenna doing the same with him. 

He had to try to get back into Morwenna’s good graces. Were he to get the children back, Morwenna would have to stay at Sawle. His name—his identity—would be reinstated. She would again be his wife, ‘til death do they part. She would belong to him and Drake Carne would be forced by law to respect that.

Did he really want that, though? Did he want to spend the rest of his life with a woman who loathed him justifiably, his eyes now open to seeing the misery and hatred in her own? His ordeals with the smugglers and Senara had made him personally aware of the emotions behind being forced against his will. Now that he knew how it felt to be trapped, to be beaten, to be _violated_ , could he forget all of that and continue his life as before?

He lie in bed staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep, suddenly unsure of what he wanted the outcome of his mother’s impending visit to be.


	26. A Mother's Intuition

Lady Whitworth showed up at Sawle the next morning as promised in her letter. She’d arrived by coach, emerging from it in a resplendent blue gown. Two men climbed off the driver’s seat of the coach, Morwenna saw from her window, which was wholly unexpected. Did Lady Whitworth expect trouble? Unfortunately, it was not clear if the children had been brought along as well, for the curtains of the coach were drawn.

Having expected her visitation with growing trepidation, Osborne had emerged from the bathroom earlier that morning with his hair slicked into his old wavy side-parted style as best he could, his face freshly shaven and his outfit hanging loosely from all limbs. It had always been apparent to him that he’d lost weight, but just how much weight he’d lost was not completely obvious until he experienced the new fit of his clothes.  
It had now been nearly twenty hours since Dr. Enys had left Sawle to aid Arthur Solway. No news had reached them of the status of Rowella’s husband. 

Osborne had shooed Drake Carne upstairs at the first sign of a knock on the door and Morwenna had in fact allowed him to do so without argument. It further convinced him of why she’d remained at Sawle since finding out of her brother-in-law’s injury. At least she was intelligent enough to realize the foolishness of allowing her peasant lover to be present during this most significant visit to get her children back. 

Osborne had dressed in one of his best outfits, consisting of a white ruffled shirt, green patterned waistcoat accentuated with gold buttons, black stockings and black breeches. He’d even slipped his feet into his black heeled shoes and found they fit better than usual, now that his feet weren’t swollen. The main issue he’d found with his clothing was that the breeches utterly refused to remain on his now slender hips. To deal with this issue, he’d fastened the tie of his dressing gown around the breeches as a kind of crude belt. Even so, the breeches hung in billows about his legs and groin, making his stockinged calves look even skinnier than they were.

“Mama, so good to see you,” Osborne tittered in his pitchy voice as they all stood together in the drawing room.

His smile was insincere as it usually was with his mother, but rather than lean in to embrace her son with an equally insincere smile, Lady Whitworth eyed the thin, blue-eyed man suspiciously, keeping her distance. 

“I beg your pardon?” Lady Whitworth replied after a beat. 

“It’s your son, Osborne. I’m home,” he said, beaming at her. Again he spread his arms to hug her but she did not approach.

Morwenna stood a distance away, her expression sullen. She would never forget what that woman had done to her, what that woman had said to her in her darkest hours. It was as if they’d have to make a pact with the devil to get John Conan back. The sooner Lady Whitworth left Sawle, the better.

“I see that you are wearing my son’s clothing,” Lady Whitworth observed, her expression sour, “but you are far too scrawny to fill them out properly.”

Osborne’s eyes widened with disbelief and narrowed into slits of irritation. How could his own mother not recognize him? It was still inconceivable to him that Morwenna refused to see that he was indeed her husband, but the woman who raised him? His own mother?

He tried to think of any scars he had, any obvious birthmarks that could prove his identity to his own stubborn mother. He then recalled having checked his pigtail birthmark as he was changing this morning—it had returned.

“Do you recall my birthmark?” he said to Lady Whitworth, managing a half-smile. “I would like to show you.”

“Birthmark? Where?”

“My backside,” he said, a blush coming across his face. It was humiliating to think he’d soon be showing his mother his bottom.

“I do not recall any birthmarks on my son’s backside,” she spat. “None whatsoever.”

Even so, Osborne turned around and pulled his pants down, exposing to both his mother and Morwenna, the pigtail birthmark. Morwenna blanched—it was there, beneath his caning scars, just as Rowella had described. He was telling the truth this whole time—he was Osborne Whitworth. She felt faint.

“Ugh!” Lady Whitworth cried. “Disgusting! My son did not have such scars—I am sure of it!”

“I am your son,” he insisted, pulling his pants back up. “As I stated in my letter, I was tortured and starved for forty days, including being caned. Did you see the birthmark?”

“Like I said, I do not recall a birthmark there on my Osborne. It’s more than just that, though,” she said, her eyes studying him carefully. “You haven’t his air. I don’t know how to describe it. Osborne had a way about him, an unmistakable air about him, reflecting his high-born status. You, on the other hand, are common.”

“ _Common_?!” he retorted, spittle flying out of his mouth. He gritted his teeth in barely controlled rage. “How dare you say such a thing to your own son?! Ask me anything and I will answer. Anything of my childhood, my marriages, my children. My education.”

Her face remained impassive and she said nothing. Suddenly she turned to Morwenna, who had been quietly watching the conversation unfold.

“Morwenna, is this part of your harebrained idea to get back the children?” Lady Whitworth said, her face intermixed with amusement and irritation. “Parading some imposter in front of me in his clothing? I believed you smarter than this. You must be desperate indeed.”

“My father’s name was William,” Osborne began, his voice quavering. “He died of consumption when I was a boy. I’ve no other siblings. I had a mare called Nell I rode all the time—a chestnut mare with a blaze. I was sent to boarding school when I turned six, and I studied—"

“All facts that can be rehearsed,” Lady Whitworth spat, only turning to him briefly. Again she turned to Morwenna. “Where did you find this man? All you were able to get right was the eye and hair color. This man utterly reeks of low birth. You have wasted my time and the time of your children, who shall remain in the carriage—”

“Please let me see him,” Morwenna cried, unable to maintain her previously adamant posture. Her eyes welled with tears as she broke down in front of her mother-in-law. “Please let me see my son again. I beg you. I—”

“Again forgetting the girls you supposedly mothered for four years,” Lady Whitworth shot, shaking her head with disappointment. “And you think _my_ family to be monsters.”

“Please.” Morwenna fell to her knees, clearly distraught. “Have you no mercy whatsoever? I have been through more than any person should ever have to endure.”

Osborne had been silenced temporarily, totally floored by his mother’s inability to recognize him. The memories of his horse had not convinced her—had he no other specific memories of his childhood he could share with her? In his panicked state, nothing was coming to him. His mother had not been a very kind, loving mother and the vast majority of his childhood memories surely involved his governess.

Drake Carne was also listening to the exchange from behind a wall. He shook his head with disgust at the things Morwenna’s mother-in-law was saying.

“You are not welcome to visit with the children in light of these… criminal actions,” Lady Whitworth asserted. “Using some… imposter to try to trick me into turning my grandchildren over to a stranger.”

Drake shook his head again, his face twisted with rage. Morwenna had predicted just such a thing, and now it was really happening.

“How dare you accuse me of such things!” Morwenna cried. “I was never welcome to visit them!” 

“Ah, you are smarter than you look, girl, in spite of this stunt! Speaking of which, your handwriting is nothing like Osborne’s,” Lady Whitworth added, thrusting the letter at Morwenna. “I know my son’s penmanship, and yours is—”

“ _I_ wrote it,” Osborne interrupted, stepping towards his mother. “I have an injury to my hand, as you can see.”

He held up his bandaged right hand to her, watching Morwenna stand up from her pitiful kneeling position on the ground.

“Ah, a rather convenient excuse to explain away your aberrant handwriting,” she immediately countered.

“I will unwrap it then, to show you,” he offered, touching the wrappings.

“Don’t bother,” she said, making a dismissive gesture. “The fact that Morwenna somehow convinced you to dress as my son, learn the facts of his life, and write a letter to me makes me believe that she would convince you to maim your own hand as well. Now I know why she had no money to spare for food.”

He could see Morwenna’s expression darken in his peripheral vision. Had his mother truly no empathy for what this woman had been through?

“It was because _I_ spent it all,” Osborne growled through gritted teeth. “I left her with nothing.”

“Ah, so you’re a con artist as well.” She turned to her daughter-in-law. “Serves you right, Morwenna. Lie down with dogs, wake up with fleas.”

“How can a mother not recognize her only child?” the vicar spat, angry that he was again being ignored. “I must insist you return my children to their home. You’ve no right to them, now that I am returned. I will produce the proper paperwork, if that’s what it takes.”

“Go ahead and try, will you?” she replied, looking amused. “They will throw you out into the streets. Now, get out of my way. I have wasted enough time here today with your folly.”

With that, she pushed Morwenna aside and strode purposefully out of the drawing room. 

\-----------------------------------

Drake Carne was standing in the foyer in front of the door when the debutante arrived, and she stopped abruptly at his blocking her way. She rolled her eyes but did not acknowledge him directly.

“Your servant is blocking my passage,” Lady Whitworth called back to Osborne and Morwenna, who had remained inside the drawing room. “Perhaps he ought to be better trained.”

“I aren’t no servant, Ma’am,” Drake countered, frowning deeply at the woman. “I in fact helped to restore your son to health. He was very close to death.”

“My son Osborne is dead,” Lady Whitworth fumed. “Do you not think a mother knows these things? I will not hand my grandchildren over to an imposter. Now, get out of my way, boy.”

“How do it hurt thee, allowin’ the children to see their mother? Is it not possible they may recognize their own father as well?”

“Get out of my way.”

“No.”

Now Morwenna and Osborne had arrived at the foyer and were observing the standoff. Drake stood in front of the door and Lady Whitworth stood facing him, her posture aggressive but matched equally by his own adamant stance.

“Mr. and Mrs. Whitworth,” Drake said, gritting his teeth, “go and see your children, I beg thee. If Lady Whitworth truly believe this man to not be their father, the children will know as well.”

Morwenna was floored by what Drake was doing. He was pushing Osborne’s mother to recognize what they had assumed to be Osborne's imposter as her own son, just so she could have a chance to see John Conan again. He was potentially wrecking the chance for Morwenna to stay widowed, were he to insist that Osborne Whitworth were indeed alive. By doing this, he was putting his future with Morwenna on the line, just so she could see her son. She had told him last night that she would do anything to hold him one more time, and apparently he had decided the same. Morwenna’s eyes filled up with tears at the realization of Drake’s selfless act of love for her.

“Please,” Drake murmured, his face insistent as he stared at her. “Go.”

Quickly Morwenna took a wide berth around Lady Whitworth and moved behind Drake to the door. Osborne remained frozen in place, unable to understand the reason why Drake was doing this, the sacrifice he was making in insisting Morwenna’s husband was still alive. Osborne simply didn’t get it, and was as taken aback as Lady Whitworth by Drake’s actions.

Morwenna opened the door to find the coach sitting in front of Sawle vicarage. The curtains had been pulled back and she could now see Sarah and Anne in the carriage. The two bodyguard-like men stood silently near the carriage, not interacting with the children, but looking stony and formidable. Quickly the girls exited the coach, carrying along John Conan. Morwenna’s heart soared.

Tears streamed down Morwenna’s face as she ran forward and embraced the three children, planting kisses all over their faces and kneeling down with them in the swampy grass of the estate. John Conan whispered _mama_ to her and she was utterly awash with love for him and yet despair as well. Surely Drake would be unable to keep Lady Whitworth away for long. This might very well be the last time she would be at liberty to hug her son.

Morwenna could do no more than squeeze the children tightly, sobbing and smiling and feeling pure elation at seeing that John Conan looked healthy and was apparently well taken care of. She smelled his dark hair, his hair that looked just like hers, and wished she could stop time at this moment. It hadn’t been the Osborne imposter that had enabled this moment to happen—it had been Drake, in an act of great peril to himself. She knew what she wanted to do, what she had to do.

\----------------------------------

“This is false imprisonment!” Lady Whitworth squawked, her face becoming redder and redder, as Drake continued to square off with her in front of the door. “You will hang for this, boy!”

“Oh, shut it,” Osborne growled, and pushed her aside as he made his way past Drake and out the door as well.

He saw Morwenna kneeling in the grass, soiling her clean skirts in the mud, with Sarah, Anne, and John Conan all clinging to her. All of them were crying. He felt a pang of jealousy. Surely his daughters would fail to recognize him as his own mother had, and the children would be taken away from him. He remained a short distance in front of the door, terrified to move toward the group and be unable to be recognized by his own children.

Rather, Osborne simply watched Morwenna as she made the most of the short time Drake had afforded her to see the children. He swallowed loudly, realizing he’d failed to reunite his family. It was in actuality the Carne boy who had succeeded in at least buying him and Morwenna time in the form of a brief visit with their children. In fact, in order to do so, Drake had insisted that he was indeed Osborne Whitworth, even though that would mean their marriage was still valid. Drake had sacrificed his relationship—he’d sacrificed himself—for Morwenna’s happiness.

“Arrest this boy!” Lady Whitworth screamed as she emerged from the door, her hand pointing somewhere behind her in the house.

Now the two men by the coach were pulled from their vigilant silence, and ran towards the house and directly toward Osborne. If they were to arrest Drake Carne and bring him before justice, a man who had already been nearly hanged, he’d surely be executed this time. Osborne turned quickly to look at Morwenna, who was now standing up, tears streaming down her face, the children positioned around her. Her moment of happiness was already gone.

“Run, Drake!” she screamed, her voice hoarse with emotion. Her pain was palpable.

When he turned back, his mother’s bodyguards were mere steps away from him.


	27. His Decision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT!
> 
> Make sure to re-read chapter 26 if you haven't already! It's a small exchange between Osborne and his mother that was necessary for the continuing plot--I changed it several days ago but this next chapter won't make complete sense if you didn't read chapter 26 again!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Make sure to re-read chapter 26 if you did not do so!

Rather than move out of the way, Osborne braced himself, steeling himself and planting his legs a distance apart as his mother’s two bodyguards plowed into him with great force. He held up his arms as they knocked him to the ground, and used his limited strength to grab onto them and keep them from proceeding. He felt fists striking him on his face, elbows digging into his ribs and abdomen, knees into his thighs, his fingers being bent into unnatural positions. He persisted at holding onto the two men, attempting to buy Drake time to escape. In the fray, he could not hear the smithy’s footfalls. Had he escaped already? It was impossible to know.

Frustration overcame him and he fought through the pain, the utter powerlessness he felt encompassing him now. He yelled incomprehensibly as he strove to stop the man from proceeding, yells that echoed through the expansive foyer of Sawle vicarage. He could endure no more disappointment. His wife, his mother, and his children had all failed to recognize him. His act that should have brought his children back to him and swayed Morwenna back to him had been shut down. Drake’s selfless act of love had been the only effective action today. 

The men soon pulled themselves away from him and he was yanked to his feet behind them, each of his hands gripping a coat with white-knuckled intensity. 

“I knew you weren’t my son!” Lady Whitworth exclaimed from a position several steps in front of him. “He would never be inclined to tussle on the floor like some kind of animal!”

Osborne shot a look of death at this woman who had birthed him, the woman who refused to recognize him, her only child. It further aggravated him that she did not react to his expression of rage. All of his torture, both physical and mental, had culminated in this moment.

With that, Osborne released his grip on the larger bodyguard and instead grabbed the smaller man with both hands, using all the force he could muster to shove the man at his mother.

“Assault! I’m being assaulted!” Lady Whitworth cried out, falling backwards onto the floor, the bodyguard landing hard on top of her, her resplendent blue dress spreading out around her like blue blood. “Seize him!” 

Now the larger bodyguard had stopped chasing Drake, whose footfalls had since faded. He spun around, glaring at Osborne, who stood panting in the foyer, his mother and the other bodyguard at his feet.

Osborne Whitworth froze in place. His fate was before him in the form of a hulking male bodyguard, come to arrest him. Was that why she had brought two men with her in the first place, to do something of this very nature? Was this her plan all along, to arrest someone today?

Before he could even speak, the smaller bodyguard grabbed his ankles and he fell heavily to the floor with a loud _oof_.

Even when the large bodyguard landed on top of him, effectively crushing the air out of his lungs, his eyes focused on the world outside of Sawle vicarage, where Morwenna stood, holding John Conan, while Sarah and Anne clung to her skirts looking wide-eyed and fearful.

He could not help but continue staring at his ethereal wife while his hands were tied with rope in front of him, the bandage viciously ripped from his wounded right hand. Cleary this had been pre-planned; who carried a length of rope on their person? The heavy body on his own made it impossible to speak. Morwenna bent down now and turned away from him and squeezed the children against her, possibly comforting them. It was difficult for him to tell what was going on outside.

In the meantime, he was pulled abruptly to his feet and heard the booming voice of his mother now, her face now inches from his own.

“How dare you wear the clothing of my beloved son, you filthy imposter!” she screamed, her eyes running up and down his body with total revulsion.

“How dare you call yourself a mother!” he blurted in reply. He pointed at Morwenna’s turned back with his bound hands, baring his teeth. “I can see now that _that_ woman,” he snarled, his voice cracking, “is more of a mother than you will ever be!”

When he turned back to look at his mother, Lady Whitworth slapped him with full force across the face, causing him to stagger to keep upright as he clutched his face in pain.

“Gag him!” Lady Whitworth roared, gesturing to her guards. “And take my son’s expensive clothing _off_ this criminal!” 

Suddenly his oversized green waistcoat was torn off of his shoulders, sliced into shreds by a bodyguard’s knife to get it past his tied-up hands. Very quickly the material from the waistcoat was applied to his mouth and tied in a knot at the back of his head, effectively preventing all speech. His breeches and their makeshift belt were then yanked down to reveal white drawers and black stockings. Though his drawers were also oversized, he thanked the heavens that they remained on through the disrobing process in addition to his shoes.

Osborne stood on the landing just outside the door, his hands bound in front of him and mouth stuffed with waistcoat material, in a white ruffled shirt covering a pair of drawers, along with black stockings and buckle shoes. He watched with widening eyes as his mother strode purposefully out of the house and to the lawn where Morwenna was facing the other way and seemingly unaware of her approach. Would his mother strike Morwenna as well? Was Drake Carne hiding somewhere nearby, waiting to save her yet again?

He lifted his bound hands to his mouth, trying to loosen the material strung tightly across his mouth, much like a horse’s bit. 

_Don’t aggravate my mother_ , he mused as he watched Morwenna turn toward his mother revealing her pained expression, the two bodyguards now inexplicably tying a very long rope to the ropes around his wrists. Morwenna hugged John Conan tightly, kissing his innocent little face, and then she hugged and kissed Sarah and Anne. Lady Whitworth said nothing at first, rather planting her hands on her hips and pointing a stern direction for the children to get back into the coach. Briefly she gestured to the bodyguards beside Osborne, who replied by yanking down sharply on the longer rope attached to Osborne’s wrists, effectively removing his hands from his gag.

“I see you have chosen to surround yourself by common criminals,” Lady Whitworth said to Morwenna with a sneer. “I will ensure that the children are not subject to your influence ever again.”

With that, Lady Whitworth stood at the entrance to the coach, preparing to leave.

“I’ll have you know that I had nothing to do with this,” Morwenna spat, baring her teeth. “I have much more to say to you but have chosen to spare the children such rhetoric about their grandmother. They will soon learn as much on their own.”

Now Lady Whitworth shook her head slowly, closing the coach door and stepping away from it with a grimace.

“Ah, so more venom for me, with no gratitude for my taking care of your children while you languish,” she spat. “It is not yet apparent to you that your scheme has very real consequences.” With that, Lady Whitworth glared at Osborne. “Men, prepare the imposter to be horsewhipped!”

“No!” Morwenna cried. She could not believe it—Lady Whitworth was preparing to whip her own son!

Osborne’s eyes went wide and he blanched, only able to let out a muffled yell as he was then pulled out onto the lawn by the rope tied to his bound hands. The cold autumn wind seemed to pass right through him, for he was clad in the minimal clothing to cover his body. 

“I want her to see the stripes you lay! Take his shirt off!”

The larger bodyguard promptly tore his ruffled white shirt at the back of the neck, ripping it all the way down so that his back was exposed. The skin that lie under the shirt was already marred with flogging scars, and Morwenna cringed at the sight of them.

“Against the back of the coach!” Lady Whitworth demanded. “Spare the children the sight!”

At that, Osborne was shoved unceremoniously against the back of the coach and instructed in a threatening whisper by a bodyguard to stay in place or be shot. He was then instructed to place his bound hands on the black painted wood at the back of the coach, while the other bodyguard fetched the horsewhip.

As he placed his hands on the coach, preparing himself for what was to come, Osborne was able to briefly peer back at Morwenna, who gave him a look of alarm.

“Turn around,” the bodyguard demanded, and he was forced to stare at the coach now, gritting his teeth within their gag. Perhaps his scarred skin would be better able to handle the strokes. He caught sight of the horsewhip then, a long, braided piece of black leather that dragged on the ground as it was held in the hand of the larger of the two bodyguards. He gulped, terrified at the prospect of more pain. He’d finally done something good for someone and was going to be punished severely for it.

“Stop!” Morwenna said, running forward and standing beside Osborne. “Do not do this—I beg you!” 

She was pulled away forcefully by one bodyguard as the other stood a distance away and laid the first painful stroke right between Osborne’s shoulder blades, immediately drawing blood there. Osborne arched his back in pain, screaming into his gag, his eyes already tearing up.

“It is your decision then—” Lady Whitworth said coolly. “Either he takes his punishment here or awaits a hearing with the Justice of the Peace.”

Osborne knew who the Justice of the Peace was, none other than George Warleggan. It was highly likely he could convince George Warleggan of his identity, and perhaps even blackmail him with all the dastardly deeds he’d done on his behalf. Yes, he’d rather await the Justice of the Peace.

Osborne turned to Morwenna and lifted his head briefly, moving his eyes to indicate a change of venue. He yelled into his gag the phrase _justice of the peace_ and hoped she’d understand. She could see that his eyes were watering now. 

_Justice of the peace?_ she mouthed, and he nodded fervently. 

“He would prefer the ruling of the Justice of the Peace,” she stated. With that, she strode back over to him, to prevent another stroke from being administered. 

“I am glad I do not have to live with that decision,” Lady Whitworth muttered. “He is known for being ruthless in his sentences. Men, tie him to the back of the coach. My daughter-in-law has chosen Truro jail for this imposter.”

With that, the debutante moved quickly to the coach, opening the door and disappearing inside.

Osborne’s shirt remained torn, and the cold autumn winds made him shiver as watched with increasing fear as the guards securely tied the rope to a low point at the back of the coach. 

“He needs clothing!” Morwenna cried, seeing that they were not going to dress him any warmer for the trip. “Let me get him some clothing.”

“Fine.”

“I will be right back. Please wait!” she cried, and sprinted into the house.

The two men took their place on the coach driver’s seat and the whip was soon readied. 

Without waiting for Morwenna’s return, the horses were urged to go and Osborne was yanked along behind the coach now, the rope going taut and almost making him fall on his face. 

\-------------------------------

Morwenna peered out the window of Osborne’s chambers, a new shirt and breeches in her hands as she watched the coach drive off, yanking Osborne Whitworth behind it. They had not waited for her. Angrily, she threw the clothes on the floor.

The next question was where Drake Carne had gone.

“Drake!” Morwenna called out, moving quickly through the hallways and peering carefully into each room. “Drake! Are you here?”  
She proceeded to search the entire house for signs of the smithy but had found none. Where had he gone? She hadn’t heard a gunshot or some such noise and so prayed he hadn’t been killed in some other manner and left to die somewhere on the grounds.

“Drake!” Morwenna now screamed, having emerged from the back door of Sawle facing the woods. “Drake—they are gone!”  
Tears came to her again and she sat down on the back stoop, her head in her hands. 

“’Wenna?” a voice called out. “Is it true?”

“It is,” she replied, smiling as she scanned the woods for signs of Drake Carne. It was now quite understandable why he was such a good hunter. She couldn’t even see him.

When she finally spotted him emerging from the woods, Morwenna ran to Drake Carne, enveloping him in a tight, desperate hug. She began to cry in spite of herself, overcome with emotions. Today had been a trying day—she had gotten to see her son and Drake was safe, but now she knew Osborne Whitworth was indeed alive.

“I’m so happy to see thee!” Drake murmured into her curly brown hair. “I am glad Lady Whitworth did not seek to arrest thee as well!”

“She took the children,” Morwenna cried. “Just as I knew she would.”

“All is not lost. They gave up the chase so soon; surely that mean ‘twas just a scare tactic.”

“It was not a mere scare tactic,” Morwenna admitted. “She had Osborne bound and gagged and taken away.”

Drake blinked several times. 

“You mean, Osborne’s imposter, I presume,” he replied.

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “That man… is my husband.”


	28. Revelation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, just a reminder to make sure that if you only read the "one-liner" chapter 27 telling you to read chapter 26 again, to make sure and read the actual chapter content for chapter 27 I put up the other day!

Chapter 28

Now Drake moved back to look at Morwenna, his face twisted with confusion.

“What? What made thee decide such a thing?”

“I saw it—his birthmark on his bottom. My sister Rowella had told me about it. I saw it, when he showed his mother. It hadn’t been there when he was sick because of his wounds.”

“Where is your mother taking him?”

“Jail, I would imagine. I cannot believe it. Osborne prevented the men from getting to you,” she blurted. “He blocked the way through the door. I think he also struck Lady Whitworth as well. My God. All the things I did right in front of him!”

“Are thee certain? Could he not have drawn the birthmark onto his skin this morning?”

“…it is in a rather awkward location,” she said, her face reddening. “I don’t think he would have done that. The more likely explanation is that it is Osborne, as he has been saying he is all along.”

“Wow. I would ne’er have guessed him capable of comin’ to our aid,” Drake admitted, scratching his head. “What should we do?”

“First,” she said, clearing her throat, “I want to thank you for your sacrifice, what you did to let me see my son, and the girls. Were it not for you, I would not have been able to hold them, to talk to them, to say goodbye.”

“It weren’t nothin’....”

“It was everything, Drake. You risked everything—yourself, our relationship—to claim that he was Osborne. What if the children had recognized him? What then? He could have had you arrested under his authority as my husband. You risked everything!”

“I recall ye sayin’ that ye’d do anything to hold your son one more time. That was when I made thee a promise.”

Morwenna looked at the man across from her and smiled at him.

“I love you, Drake. I’ve never stopped loving you.”

“I love thee as well, ‘Wenna.”

This time, both Morwenna and Drake both leaned towards each other. This time, their lips touched and everything became immaterial except the both of them.

Morwenna and Drake wrapped their arms around each other and melted into each other, becoming one. Chills ran through Morwenna and her body responded to his touch, his embrace, with natural ease.

When they finally ended the kiss, both Morwenna and Drake were flushed, their eyes twinkling.

“We ought to leave here as soon as we are able, lest Lady Whitworth and her goons return to find you,” Morwenna suggested.

“We can stay at my smithy,” Drake answered with a shrug. “It aren’t as big as Sawle, but—”

“That would be perfect,” she said. “They do not know your name nor where you live. We would be safe there for now, I think.”

Drake looked happy in response, but seemed as if he wanted to say more. Morwenna could see this.

“Is there something else you want to say?” she asked, searching his eyes.

“Aye,” he began, clearing his throat and looking momentarily awkward. “Morwenna, I wish for more than to simply live beside thee. I want to be your home. I want us to make a new life together beginnin’ now, the happy life that thee do deserve.”

“I believe I see where you are going with this,” Morwenna interrupted, “but if Osborne is indeed alive, that means—”

“Would you marry me?”

With that, Drake reached into his jacket and produced a tiny silvery ring. 

“Pardon the crudeness of it,” he said, looking embarrassed. “‘Twas the first thing I made as a smithy—a ring for thee.”

“Drake, I cannot accept your proposal,” Morwenna said, tears filling her eyes. “I am still married, as abhorrent as that is. Osborne is alive.”

“Not officially,” he said, eyes lighting up with hope. “And maybe never. Ye said it, Morwenna, his own mother do fail to recognize him. Do that not matter?”

“But I do, now,” she said. “What if my word is the difference between his living and dying?”

“’Twas already so, and you’ve restored him to life already once. How many times must you suffer for his sake?”

“I don’t know,” Morwenna muttered. “I wish there was something that could be done. I very much wish to marry you, Drake,” she said. “But I must do it with a clear conscience.”

“Would thee wear my ring until then?” Drake replied. “Just say it’s a gift from a friend, if one should ask. May I put it on your finger?”

Now Morwenna smiled at her beau, and held out her left hand to him, as he slipped the perfectly-fitting ring on her ring finger.

\-------------

Morwenna and Drake held hands as they re-entered Sawle vicarage. The ring that Drake had constructed for her fit her ring finger perfectly. Osborne’s gold ring had been gone from her finger since the moment he’d been pronounced dead.

“Let us pack provisions and then we can head out to the stable to pack the mare,” Morwenna said as they proceeded upstairs. The house was cold and empty but its atmosphere held more hope for her than it had ever held in the four years she’d been living there.

“Perhaps before we leave, we can finish the leftover food from last night’s supper,” Drake suggested. “It do seem a shame to let it go to waste.”

Upon entering her chamber, Morwenna changed into her warmest clothing and shoes and tucked her knife into her riding boots. She packed the metal pendant Drake had made her into her pockets, the beautiful piece of pewter he’d elegantly formed into a mother and child, her most treasured possession from Sawle. The book with pressed flowers and the cross he’d given her at Osborne’s funeral she also packed with her. In a small bag she packed undergarments, comfortable shoes, and several thick winter dresses. She would need to subsist on these clothes for this cold, wintry weather. Lastly, she grabbed a heavy blue shawl from the bed and wrapped it around her shoulders. The weather had already started to turn and she’d knitted this very shawl herself some years ago.

Morwenna stood up, warm and prepared, straightening her skirts. There was nothing else in this room that she wished to bring with her. Everything in this room had either belonged to Osborne’s first wife, or had been purchased for her by her husband as a mere status symbol. John Conan’s empty crib at the foot of her bed reminded her of her lost child, and yet somehow today’s confrontation had settled her stomach about him in some strange way. And yet, why had Osborne done what he had done? Why had he helped them? And what was to happen to him now?

She dug through an armoire to find the little pieces of clothing she had knitted for her son, and tucked them lovingly inside her winter clothing. Satisfied with the precious little that she’d taken from her chamber, she met Drake in the hallway and they proceeded into the children’s room where Drake had previously deposited some articles of clothing for his stay. 

They glanced at the empty walls of the girls’ room, Sarah and Anne having taken much of their possessions with them when Lady Whitworth had taken them. There was nothing significant to take as a reminder of the girls. 

“Let us eat,” she said to Drake after they’d finished packing. “We have quite the trip ahead of us and we shouldn’t head out on an empty stomach.”

\------------------

Osborne yelped as he stepped into an icy cold mud puddle along the main route to Truro. It instantly soaked through his now ruined shoes, promising even more misery for his trip. The distance to Truro was approximately six miles and usually took an hour on horseback. With him being pulled along behind the coach, it was going to take several hours to arrive at their destination.

He wanted badly to pull off his gag, but his mother’s bodyguards had tied his rope to something under the back of the coach and the forward movement of the horse team kept a constant tension on the ropes. Several times when they seemed to slow, he attempted to jog forward to put slack in the rope and get the opportunity to lift his hands to his face, but now he was too tired and miserable to try again. The flogging wound on his back ached badly, further enhanced by the chill of his exposed skin to the elements.

Somehow he hadn’t fallen yet, even though the coach had been on the road for probably a half hour by now. He’d had to keep up his pace between that of a very brisk walk and a medium jog in order to prevent falling and being dragged behind the coach. How would his mother even know if he’d fallen? He was effectively gagged and thus couldn’t yell out. Perhaps she hoped that once they’d arrived in Truro, he’d be dead, his face and body scraped beyond recognition and beaten up from the stones and rocks of the path. 

Ugh, why had he chosen to do this at all—to fight his mother’s bodyguards? Was it for the glory of it all, to win the affections of Morwenna? Or was it because it was simply the right thing to do? 

He swallowed, tasting the old sweat in his waistcoat. No one aboard the coach called back to him to ensure that he hadn’t fallen. It was only a matter of time before he tripped on something and ended up getting dragged behind the coach. The alternative to falling and getting dragged to his death was not much better, however. Surely if he were to reach Truro jail intact, he would be promptly hanged for his crime. Maybe Rowella would stand in the audience wearing her feathered mask, and flash her foot just before the trap door was opened beneath his feet. 

\----------------------------------

Dr. Dwight Enys pushed his horse to a trot as he headed westerly on the path from Truro to Sawle. He had unfortunate news to deliver to Morwenna Whitworth nee Chynoweth about the status of her brother-in-law Arthur Solway. He’d been remaining by the man’s bedside ever since his tragic riding accident, and it was just this morning that Arthur had passed away.

Grimacing, Dr. Enys continued through along the muddy rain-soaked path, going over the details of today in his head. He was to first deliver the sad news to Morwenna and then continue back home to his wife Caroline. The wake for Arthur had now begun in earnest, with his interment planned this very evening. Rowella had invited him and his wife and of course her sister as well.

The trees looming above the path dripped the remnants of rain on his head as he proceeded along the well-worn path. It was then that he saw an aberrant coach, approaching from the east, a coach driven by two horses and two men in the rider’s seat. It was odd for a coach to be traveling in this direction at this time, and with two drivers, to boot.

He tipped his tricorn hat to the drivers, receiving a mirrored response from the two men. The coach’s curtains were drawn and so he could not tell who was inside the coach. He then saw out of the corner of his eye, one of the drivers speeding the horses on with his whip. The coach sped up momentarily, its wheels lurching in the mud as it went. But there was something else.

Someone was being dragged behind the coach, flat on their stomach. By the length of the hair, it appeared to be a man, clad in strange attire. The man’s arms were extended out in front of him, his hands bound together and tied to the back of the coach with rope, and his face and the front of his body were covered in thick dark mud. Something was affixed over the man’s mouth, possibly preventing him from making any sound. He was attempting to keep his face up, but was still being pulled along the swampy path. His back was completely exposed, with dark blood marring the skin between his shoulder blades.

Dr. Enys spun his horse around so that he was trotting along beside the coach drivers.

“There is a man being dragged behind your coach,” he said sternly. “He is very likely to die if you do not stop.”

“He’s a criminal headed to jail, an’ the noose most likely,” one of the bodyguards snorted. “What do it matter when he die?”

“Executing a man without trial is cause for your own noose,” Dr. Enys retorted. “I demand you stop this coach and allow him to stand back up, at the very least.”

“Ye mean, he fell? Can’t be havin’ that,” the other driver groaned, slapping his forehead. He pulled on the reins, quickly stopping the horses in their place.

Now Dr. Enys dismounted his own horse and strode back to the unfortunate man being pulled behind the coach. The man was now on his hands and knees. He could now plainly see that the man had been gagged, which explained his inability to communicate that he had fallen. Without asking the coach drivers, Dr. Enys moved to the back of the man’s head and promptly yanked the muddy gag off of his head. 

As Osborne was freed from the gag, he could only moan in reply, still unable to lift his hands up to his face to wipe off his muddy face.

“Tha’s quite enough,” one of the coach drivers growled, having stood up from his seat to look back at the exchange behind the coach. 

“With him gagged, he cannot alert you if he should fall,” Dr. Enys replied. “I have taken the liberty to remove the gag so he can alert you of any trouble.”

“Thanks,” the driver said with a sneer and sat back down, grabbing a hold of the reins once more.

With that, the coach began moving again along the path, causing Osborne to almost slip and fall again as it continued forward. The top half of his face still covered in mud, rendering him unrecognizable, Osborne briefly looked back at Dr. Enys, who stood in the middle of the path, having inexplicably involved himself in a messy situation. He silently thanked the heavens for Dr. Enys having the sense to remove his gag.

How much longer would he be forced to continue on this path? He was practically shirtless and constantly shivering from the cold. He could not even wrap his arms around him for warmth, for they were constantly being pulled out in front of him, forcing him to continue along this path. Putting one foot in front of the other was agonizing, let alone having to do so continuously at a horse’s pace. Thankfully, since Dr. Enys had confronted the men, they’d slowed the coach down somewhat to a pace that he could maintain with a very brisk walk. 

A strong autumn wind blew through the trees and he shivered again. Perhaps he wouldn’t live to see his own trial. With this unprecedented exposure to the elements, he was certain that his bout of pneumonia would soon be well on its way to returning.


	29. Doctor's Visit

Chapter 29

Dr. Enys quickly mounted his horse again and dug his heels into the steed as he pushed it to a gallop due westward, glancing back occasionally to see that the man behind the coach was able to stay upright—for now. He would have to tell Morwenna the news of Arthur very quickly, to request some warm provisions from her, and to return to the coach. This man’s very life depended on it.

He could not help but wonder where this coach had originated. Who was the man being dragged in the back? Who was in the coach? What was the reason for the arrest?

\-----------------------------

At a gallop, Dr. Enys was able to traverse the last two miles of his journey to Sawle vicarage in slightly over five minutes. He tied his panting horse to a post outside the main wall to the vicarage. Quickly he attempted to straighten his hat and clothes and regain his composure—the treatment of that unfortunate man weighed heavily on his mind. He knocked loudly on the door, attempting to predict who would answer. Would it be Morwenna? Drake Carne? Or Osborne Whitworth?

“Who’s there?” a small female voice called out fearfully.

“It’s Dwight Enys,” he replied quickly. 

Without delay the door was opened, revealing Morwenna. She was overdressed for the conditions inside her home, wearing a heavy winter dress, coat, riding boots, and a large blue shawl over her shoulders. Now he could see Drake emerging from the drawing room and he too was dressed for the elements. Dr. Enys bowed to them both and began explaining his presence.

“I have come to deliver you the unfortunate news that your sister’s husband Arthur Solway has succumbed to his injuries.” 

Morwenna covered her mouth, clearly perturbed by this news.

“Oh my God,” she said, her mouth agape behind her hand. “I cannot believe it. What happened?”

“He fell from his horse and landed on his head. I attempted to mitigate the internal bleeding, but the damage was too great.”

“How truly awful. He was so young. Oh, my poor little sister….”

“She has called upon me to invite you to the wake today. His interment is to be tonight.”

“We can head to your sister’s as soon as ye say the word,” Drake said comfortingly, placing his hands on her shoulders. “We’ve already packed all the provisions.”

Now Dr. Enys could see the packed bags stuffed with clothing that cluttered the area around Drake’s feet. Clearly this was not to be a short venture away from Sawle. He wrinkled his brow with concern.

“Am I to understand you are leaving Sawle?”

“Yes,” she said, not explaining further.

“And what of your houseguest? Is he to remain at Sawle?”

Now Morwenna looked downcast again.

“He is gone. My mother-in-law had him arrested.”

Dr. Enys blinked in disbelief. Could that pitiful, muddied man behind the coach have been Osborne Whitworth? He narrowed his eyes as he responded.

“You mean, Lady Whitworth?”

“Yes.”

“That’s strange. What happened?”

“Yesterday he wrote a letter to Lady Whitworth requesting the return of the children to Sawle. She arrived this morning but did not recognize him as her son and refused to return the children. When she was returning to the coach, Drake stepped in and blocked her way through the door, affording me time to see and talk to the children. She ordered Drake’s arrest.”

Morwenna took a moment to take a breath, her incomplete story confusing Dr. Enys, who began to speak.

“I fail to see how—”

“There is more. Her two bodyguards then took chase, but he thwarted them by blocking their way into the vicarage. Lady Whitworth called for his arrest and they gave up trying to catch Drake. They were going to horsewhip him but then he decided to take his chances with the Justice of the Peace. They then took him away.”

Dr. Enys peered at Morwenna with narrowed eyes. Now he was starting to doubt himself; maybe he had been wrong to assume the man’s identity. How could Osborne’s own mother fail to recognize him? His own wife? His own children? Perhaps he had overstepped his boundaries in assuming he’d been telling the truth. He could not fathom Osborne’s own mother having him horsewhipped then arrested and dragged behind her coach. He wished to tell Morwenna of his suspicions as to the man’s identity, but he did not have time to engage in what looked to be a long conversation—a man’s life was on the line. He had to return to the coach as soon as possible to provide some aid to the man, some warm clothing and dry shoes at the very least.

“I passed by that very coach on the way here,” Dr. Enys replied. “He was being dragged through the mud by the vehicle and is profoundly underdressed for the weather. I fear for his life.”

“Would you want some of my husband’s clothing to bring to him?” Morwenna suggested. “I was attempting to fetch some clothes for him when the coach left Sawle. He will die in this cold.”

“I was going to ask you for that very thing,” Dr. Enys said, his expression softening. “If you could also spare a pair of Osborne’s shoes, I would very much appreciate it.”

\---------------------------

With a nod, Dr. Enys took the bundle of clothes and shoes Morwenna had brought him and tucked them under an arm. He gave her a deep bow of appreciation.

“I would recommend taking an alternate route into Truro if you seek to avoid Lady Whitworth’s coach,” he said to the pair. “They will be taking much longer than usual to ride into town if they hope to bring that man in alive.”

“Thank you for the warning,” Morwenna said. “So shall we see you later at the wake, or the interment? Perhaps we can discuss this further at that time.”

“I plan to be there,” Dr. Enys replied, his voice tinged with uncertainty. In fact, he couldn’t be sure he would be able to come at all. It was now his charge to ensure that Sawle’s former houseguest would arrive at the Truro jail alive and well. He bowed politely to them, his face determined. “Good-bye to you both.”

\-----------------------------------

Drake and Morwenna closed the door of Sawle vicarage behind them and hastily headed in the direction of the stable. They quickly loaded up Osborne’s mare with their supplies and climbed on, with Drake in control of the reins and Morwenna behind him.

“I admire your ability to avoid sayin’ his name with Dr. Enys,” Drake commented, flashing Morwenna a smile. “’Twould be quite difficult, now that ye know it to be Osborne.”

“I am glad we were able to discuss that before his arrival,” she replied in a slightly affronted tone. “The fewer people know, the better,” Morwenna replied. “It is only a matter of time before he is back here at Sawle, to continue our miserable marriage.”

“Do not be afeard,” Drake replied, giving her a reassuring pat on the back. “We didn’t think him capable of helpin’ us against his own mother, and yet he did.”

“I cannot help but feel awful that he is to be jailed and punished for the only good thing he’s ever done.”

“Everythin’ will turn out in the end; you’ll see,” Drake said comfortingly. “To your sister’s house, then, I presume?” 

“Yes,” Morwenna replied breathlessly, holding him around his waist. “Let’s go.”

\---------------------------

When Dr. Enys finally caught up with the coach, it was still another 4 miles away from Truro. He saw that Osborne’s gag had thankfully remained off. Even so, he could see that Osborne now staggered behind the coach, his form doubled over from the chilly winds, bound hands red and swollen from the most likely unbearable tension constantly pulling and compressing his wrists.

Dr. Enys pushed his horse to a gallop and cut off the coach, forcing it to such an abrupt stop that one of the horses startled and reared up.

“I demand you explain the reason for why you are dragging this man behind your coach.”

“Ugh, he fall again back there?” the bodyguard said with a yawn. “Thought he knew how to walk.”

“No, he is currently trying with all his might to keep up with your canter. This is no way to treat another human being. I ask again: why have you arrested him?”

“That’s easy enough,” the one bodyguard replied. “Assault. He assaulted Lady Whitworth as well as me and my partner here. Could e’en be deemed attempted murder, I wager. We’ve plenty of witnesses.”

“That man is sorely underdressed and his hands may suffer permanent damage from having such tension applied to his wrists for so long,” Dr. Enys explained, pointing toward the back of the coach. “As a physician, I demand you permit me to assess his physical condition, lest you be accused of the same crime.”

Now the curtains in the coach opened, revealing Lady Whitworth.

“I do not appreciate your efforts to undermine my authority,” she quipped with a dismissive flick of the wrist. “But assess him if you must. The sooner he is brought to jail, the sooner he can rest his legs. It is you who is delaying him relief—remember that.”

“Simply stopping the coach momentarily is granting him much-needed relief,” Dr. Enys replied angrily. 

With that, he dismounted his horse and strode to the back of the coach, where Osborne was now sitting on the ground, having moved closer to the back of the coach to relieve the tension in his wrists. He had been able to wipe most of the mud from his face and stared up at Dr. Enys with a mix of confusion and embarrassment.

“How are you faring?” Dr. Enys said, squatting down by Osborne. “How are your legs?”

“How do you _think_ I am faring?” Osborne groaned through his shallow pants. “My own mother is responsible for all of this. I am sure to catch pneumonia again. I only wish that she could be made aware of my identity before I die. She has murdered her own child.”

So he was still insisting he was Osborne. Dr. Enys looked at him, full of pity. If he truly was Osborne, this treatment from his own mother was beyond the pale. 

“Would you prefer _I_ speak of your identity—”

“I am certain it won’t help. I’d rather you prevent the loss of the use of my hands. I have not been able to feel them for more than a quarter of an hour, I wager.”

Dr. Enys reached out and touched Osborne’s bound hands. They were as cold as ice, a purplish red, and swollen to unnatural proportions. His right hand had an ugly, partly-healed wound near his thumb.

“What happened here?” he said, pointing to the injury to his thumb.

“A previous injury,” Osborne muttered, clearly uncomfortable speaking of it. 

“And your back?”

“Recent. Her bloody bodyguard horsewhipped me.”

“Here,” Dr. Enys said, pulling the bundle of clothes out from under an arm. “I have brought you warm dry clothing.”

Osborne gaped at the clothing in wonder and then up at the physician. How had Dr. Enys managed to fetch his _own_ clothing?

He narrowed his eyes suspiciously at the physician.

“Where did you get my clothes?”

“From Sawle.” 

“Sawle?” Osborne said, his lips trembling, chest still heaving from exertion. “But why would you—”

“I had been originally heading that way, to inform Mrs. Whitworth of Arthur’s passing. Once she explained the events of today, I realized _you_ were who’d I’d seen earlier. She then offered to give me your old cl—”

“Did you get to explain to her about my being—”

“I did not get a chance to explain,” Dr. Enys cut in. “I knew I had to return to you in haste, and so I kept the conversation short.”

“Are you quite finished back there?” Lady Whitworth yelled out, her face peeking out at them from between the curtains.

“Your prisoner is in grave danger of losing the function of his hands,” Dr. Enys yelled back. “He also needs dry clothes.”

“Ugh,” she groaned. “We shall never get to our destination.”

Dr. Enys turned back to aid Osborne. He lifted the ropes binding Osborne’s hands together and studied them carefully. The ropes were wet and swollen and impossible to loosen, let alone untie. Dr. Enys could see that they were cutting deeply into the flesh of Osborne’s wrists, the skin white and puckered around them. Quickly he pulled a scalpel from his pocket and sawed through the wet material, freeing the man’s hands from their bounds.

Immediately Osborne began to rub and knead his hands together, staring at them with fear. 

“It may take several minutes for the feeling to return to them, and it will be painful at first, but it is the only way,” Dr. Enys said. “Would you like me to help you change out of that shirt? I have a fresh shirt and coat for you to wear instead.”

“I can manage on my own, thank you,” Osborne murmured quietly. 

“I will try to arrange another method of transport for you,” Dr. Enys replied in a fatherly voice. “I strongly recommend you change into these clothes as soon as you are able so you can stave off the sickness that comes from being cold and damp.”

“Perhaps it is better to die sooner, before the reality of the situation can be fully comprehended,” Osborne grumbled, beginning to unfold the clean shirt from the pile of clothes on his lap. He shook his head, staring down at his damaged hands. “My own bloody mother….”

Dr. Enys took several steps toward the coach and pulled the curtains back. Inside the coach sat Lady Whitworth and her three grandchildren. 

“Lady Whitworth, would you prefer we converse in private?” he asked in a polite voice. “I must speak to you about the man you have had arrested.”

“It’s nothing that can’t be said in front of my grandchildren,” she replied. “Go on.”

“He has lost sensation in his hands, which may be permanently damaged by this barbaric manner of transport. He is also in very real danger of developing pneumonia.”

“If his hands are already permanently damaged, what more can be done?” she flippantly muttered.

“I said they _may_ be, Madam,” he replied, shaking his head with disgust. “I recommend another way of transporting him to jail, if that is your destination for him. I would be willing to volunteer that he ride with me on my horse and I can ride ahead of your coach to ensure you keep an eye on him.”

“Why would I wish to relinquish control of him? How do I know you won’t gallop off into the forest with him?”

“You have my word as both a physician and as a gentleman. Madam, if this man suffers permanent injury or death as a result of your… _treatment_ , you can be assured that on my word, the authorities will shortly be on their way to arrest you. It is your choice.”

“Fine,” she replied, waving her hand dismissively. “Do what you will. But he is being brought to _jail_. Do not think you are going to aid in his escape.”

“I understand the course of justice perfectly well,” Dr. Enys replied. “And the steps of justice must be followed _in order._ ”

\----------------------

When Dr. Enys returned to the back of the coach, Osborne had thrown his muddy torn shirt on the ground and had been able to dress himself in the clean shirt and coat. He was still sitting on the ground in spite of now being untied from the coach. It was clear that he was badly hurting, to not attempt to escape while not being watched.

“I have suggested to Lady Whitworth that you ride with me to the jail and she has agreed,” Dr. Enys explained. “You are no longer expected to walk behind this infernal coach for the remainder of your journey.”

“Why bother helping me,” Osborne said with a sigh, not bothering to look up. “What have I to live for anymore?”

“This is not the end for you,” Dr. Enys explained. “I am sure of it.”


	30. The Widow Solway

“Rowella!”

“Sweet sister!”

The two sisters embraced in Rowella’s small home in Truro. As she hugged her sister, Morwenna scanned Rowella’s humble abode. Black curtains had been placed over the windows, making the home appear even more cramped than it was. The table had been removed from the main dining area, opening up the space. Morwenna could see the edge of it in the room furthest from the front door, which presumably was the bedroom. The sickeningly sweet aroma of death and flowers filled the house. A figure covered in white lie atop the table. Arthur’s body had already been laid out for the wake.

“I am so sorry to hear about Arthur,” Morwenna murmured, feeling her eyes tearing up. “Dr. Enys told me what happened.” Rowella was largely unemotional.

“I did not expect to see you so soon,” Rowella replied. “I believe it only an hour or so ago that he left here to tell you the news….”

“I was ready to go to your house at a moment’s notice,” she said. “I had already packed my things when Dr. Enys arrived.”

“I am glad you are here,” Rowella said, smiling at her. “We must talk.”

“Of course! When is Arthur’s family coming? You have told me how he visits with them weekly.”

“They should be here later today. His interment will be this evening, as I’m sure Dr. Enys told you. If you cannot stay, I understand.” She leaned to the side a bit, to look around the back of her sister and make eye contact with Drake Carne. “I see you brought someone with you.”

“This is Drake Carne,” Morwenna said, stepping to the side and gesturing to him with clear excitement. “I believe you recall my speaking of him.”

“I do,” Rowella replied, making a face of confusion. She recalled the many times Morwenna had mentioned the name. It was obvious that her older sister loved Drake Carne. In fact, Morwenna had very nearly married this man before being forced to marry Osborne Whitworth. Speaking of which, where _was_ Osborne?

“I would like to stay and help you,” Morwenna said, jolting Rowella out of her reverie. “In the meantime, Drake will be bringing our things to his home in Truro.”

“Shall I head out now, ye think?” Drake asked, having heard his name.

“You could,” Morwenna began. “The guests will start arriving soon, I would imagine.”

“I’m honored to make your acquaintance, Ma’am,” Drake said to Rowella and gave her a smile and bow. “My condolences on the death of your husband. I will be back shortly.” 

Once Drake had left, Morwenna turned to her sister.

“Is there something I can do for you? Anything.” 

Rowella was taken aback by her sister having brought Drake Carne along, of all people, but her sister’s healthy color and now sparkling eyes were a blessing to see. It was as if Morwenna had returned from the dead.

“I’ve no need for any help,” Rowella said with a chuckle and a kind of wink. “Besides, it seems as if you are far more interested in other things.”

Morwenna took her sister’s hand. “You have been such a blessing to me over the years. You made such sacrifices to make my pregnancy—my _marriage_ —more bearable. And for that, I am forever in your debt.”

“What sacrifices?” Rowella countered. “You mean, seducing your husband?”

“Yes,” Morwenna murmured, her eyes falling. It seemed a ludicrous thing to thank someone for. Initially when she’d heard of her sister’s pregnancy by Osborne, she had been livid. But it soon made perfect sense to her. Those times that she could hear her husband yelling out in sexual congress with Rowella, he was in effect leaving her alone. Those times he’d be gone for hours during the day, he was satiating himself with her sister. Morwenna looked up and gave her sister a small smile. “I will never be able to repay you for diverting his… urges away from me.”

“Even so, sister, I took advantage of his weakness for my own financial gain,” Rowella countered. “The money Arthur had been bringing you was your own.”

Morwenna thought back to those first couple of weeks Osborne had been gone, before he’d been officially pronounced dead. She hadn’t even had to send a letter to her sister regarding Osborne’s disappearance; only days after he’d gone missing, she’d spotted Arthur’s shock of red hair as he rode away from Sawle, depositing food and money for her at her doorstop. Every time she’d try to catch him, to refuse those ill-gotten funds, she would already be too late. It seemed as if for all of the half-dozen times he’d stopped by, he’d simply thrown the provisions from his horse, because she’d never gotten a chance to speak with him. Once Drake insisted upon helping her instead, she’d sent a letter to her sister and the deliveries had abruptly stopped.

“I am well aware of the source of that money,” Morwenna muttered. “But I also understand why you did it. Osborne was utterly repulsive. You deserve far more compensation than that for having endured him.”

“And what _of_ Osborne?” Rowella countered. “Why did _he_ not accompany you here?”

\-------------------------------

It had taken an inexorable amount of time to climb onto Dwight Enys’s horse. Osborne’s legs and hands felt like they were being stabbed repeatedly and sitting astride a large animal wasn’t helping the sensations in his thighs to fade.

Dr. Enys had climbed on in front of him, instructing him to hold on. With a look back at the coach, Dr. Enys pushed his horse to a canter and they headed on down the path to Truro.

“Why are you doing this?” Osborne blurted, blinking with disbelief at his very unlikely savior. 

“I’m not sure what you mean,” was the reply.

“Why are you helping me?” he stated. “You are more aware than most of my sins against my wife. Surely I am unworthy of such aid.”

“No one is beyond saving,” Dr. Enys said. “It seems that the very act that got you into your current situation was in fact purely altruistic—am I correct in saying so?”

“I don’t know,” Osborne muttered, hanging his head. “Possibly—but it was also driven by loathing for my own mother.”

“Did you intend on helping Mr. Carne escape your mother’s bodyguards?”

“Yes.”

“Then it was a selfless act.”

They continued on for some time, Osborne in thoughtful silence. Was he supposed to feel good about doing good? The only act of his he could truly call altruistic, and he was going to be punished dearly for it!

He noticed Dr. Enys pulling several paces further ahead of the coach, leaning back towards him as he spoke in a hushed tone.

“Now—once we have arrived at the jail, you will await the ruling of the Justice of the Peace,” Dr. Enys murmured. “Your mother is accusing you of assault. Do you have a strategy?”

“Yes,” Osborne muttered. “George Warleggan is Justice of the Peace. He and I are associates. I believe I can convince him of my innocence.”

“I would be willing to testify on your behalf if need be,” Dr. Enys said. “I can speak of your disappearance and your subsequent change in appearance. I can speak of your extended torture and starvation altering the very chemistry of your brain.”

“And you would be asserting that I am Osborne Whitworth then, I presume?” Osborne murmured back.

“I would. In fact, there is little doubt that once you and I swear under oath that you are indeed Osborne Whitworth, your mother will promptly drop the charges against you.”

“I would hope, but I am not so sure about that anymore,” Osborne said with a sigh. 

They continued on towards Truro at a rather slow pace for horseback, Dr. Enys silently praying that Morwenna and Drake would make haste to Rowella’s house, which sat right along the coach’s path, before the coach passed through.

In the meantime, Osborne could only think of what he would do to save his own skin. Reasserting his true identity with Dr. Enys at his side seemed the most successful strategy. At best, it would lead to the children being returned to him and the look of utter shame and failure on his mother’s face. At worst, it would force Morwenna to be married to him once again.

The horse emerged from the woods as the city of Truro opened up around them. Now the horse’s hoofbeats were loud and amplified on the cobblestone, as they proceeded to the city center, to Truro jail. Osborne briefly peered behind him to see the dark coach still following them, his mother unperturbed inside by the decision she had made.

It would only be a matter of time now that he would be back in chains. His head turned as he recognized the front of his mistress Rowella’s house, which was positioned right off of the thoroughfare through Truro. He closed his eyes, recalling his dalliances with her, how close he felt to her in those times of passion, how very much he enjoyed her company. Even so, it had been she who had been the first who sought his punishment. And now his own mother was seeking to recommence it.

\--------------------------

Drake had taken the mare and departed for his smithy with his and Morwenna’s luggage shortly after they’d arrived at Rowella’s house, and he was still gone. During this time, the sisters had since dispensed with the niceties and had begun to engage in a heated conversation about none other than Osborne Whitworth.

“How did _you_ know that Osborne was at Sawle?” Morwenna muttered, taken aback. “I only just found out the truth mere hours ago.”

“Because his disappearance and reappearance were orchestrated by myself,” Rowella replied matter-of-factly. 

Morwenna flashed her a look of suspicion and disappointment.

“What? But… _why_ , Rowella? Why did you say nothing to me? Why did you not warn me that he was returning to Sawle? I would have behaved far differently.”

Morwenna began pacing feverishly back and forth in her sister’s small kitchen. 

“How did you behave that was so inappropriate?” Rowella answered.

“To his face, I said my husband was in hell. I called him a monster. I told him of himself, for God’s sake!”

“He needed that, though, don’t you see?” Rowella said. “He had to know just how you perceived him, which would never have happened had you known it was he!”

“The man has a wicked temper. He could have struck me—he could have killed me!”

“Did he strike you?” Rowella asked.

“No. But he could very well have done so! Your little plans could have gotten me killed!”

“I am sorry,” Rowella replied, looking contrite. “In hindsight, it probably wasn’t the safest choice.”

Rowella’s words of apology had not yet calmed down her sister, who was starting to border on frantic.

“I just… cannot _conceive_ this!” Morwenna exclaimed. “When were you going to tell me?”

“Am I not telling you now?”

Morwenna wrung her hands, continuing to pace back and forth.

“It’s not just about his hearing my unfiltered opinions of him, Rowella. Drake and I were affectionate right in front of him,” she cried, grimacing. “If Osborne is able to reinstate his identity, he will probably have Drake hanged for philandering. All because you neglected to tell me who he was from the start!”

“Had Osborne not been fervently asserting his identity to you from the start?” she said, cocking her head. “Had he not shown you his birthmark from the outset? Dear sister, you wanted to believe that it was not he.”

“Right when he came in the house, he pulled down his bloody pants,” Morwenna replied, seething, “right in front of me. All I could see were caning marks crisscrossed all over his skin. No birthmark, and absolutely no sense of decorum.”

“Well, what convinced you in the end?” Rowella said, calm as ever. 

“He showed his birthmark to his mother today,” Morwenna uttered, feeling foolish as she swallowed. “I could see it—it was quite visible. And he _has_ been insisting unwaveringly that he is Osborne.”

“Did he not act at all like himself?” Rowella said, looking thoughtful. “I knew his exile would change him, but I am surprised to hear of the extent.”

Morwenna shook her head, not convinced that things were under control.

“All I know is that he will seek vengeance against Drake and I both for all of this,” she muttered, looking nervous.

“Do not worry about that,” Rowella replied, perfectly at ease. “If he seeks vengeance on anyone, it will be me.”

Morwenna peered at Rowella with narrowed eyes. 

“But if he doesn’t know you orchestrated it….”

It was then that Rowella began to laugh, her lips curling at the edges much like a cupid’s.

“I am certain that he does,” Rowella replied. “In fact, I have been awaiting a confrontation with him since he’d been returned to Sawle. Believe me, dear sister, you will have nothing to fear after I reveal to you all that I’ve had done to that man,” she explained. “Would you like to know?”

Morwenna stared at her with wide eyes.

“What did you do?”

Rowella sat down on the settee, patting the seat next to her as she smiled up at her sister.

“It’s probably better if you sit down while I tell you—I’ve quite a lot to say!”


	31. A Visitor

Lady Whitworth spent very little time lingering outside of the jail once Osborne had been brought in by her bodyguards, each lugging him in by an arm. He allowed them to lead him inside, his eyes unadjusted to the new dimness of the dank cells around him. 

Osborne was led to an empty cell with a square of light shining upon its stone floor, a fortunate little window he could depend on to tell him what time of day it was. The cell had a chamber pot and what appeared to be a straw mattress laying directly on the stone floor, a thin tattered blanket lying atop it. My, what he had had to grow accustomed to these past two months! First, absolute deprivation of any comforts on the island, and now jail! 

He held onto the bars as he slowly sank down to the ground, relieved that he could now sit and lie around for the next several days, safe from the smugglers and from the view of his wife making eyes at another man. His legs were sore and his knees and elbows had been badly skinned from being dragged along the ground, but he’d have several days now to restore his strength and state of mind. 

The jailer turned the key in the door, and he was locked in the cell alone. He saw no others along his corridor, no one to taunt him, tease him, or potentially recognize him. At least he might be able to appreciate the quiet when night came. He’d slept in far worse conditions than this, a thought that still surprised him.

How should he approach his impending hearing? An attempt to blackmail George Warleggan with insider knowledge might not go over so well. George Warleggan held much power but had crooked ways of dealing with other citizens, and he more than anyone would recognize blackmail. Should he assert his name and his Godolphin connections instead? Should he assert merely his aristocratic Godolphin connections, rather than stating his exact name and bringing forth the possibility that George would fail to recognize him as well? 

He had a week to think about this before his hearing, and he had Dr. Enys and his level-headed educated ways to assist him in making the right decision.

The best possible scenario involved him walking out of the hearing a free man, the Reverend Osborne Whitworth, with the authority to force Lady Whitworth to return his children, signed by George Warleggan himself. Even so, this “perfect” scenario would also have to involve the reinstatement of his marriage to Morwenna Chynoweth, who he could see not only loathed him but loved another. He would have to resume his infidelities to quench his lust, and pray that the smugglers wouldn’t return to punish him for those sins.

On his merits of being a Godolphin alone, he could walk out a free man, but with no children and no wife. He would be free to marry again, or not to marry. The choice between these two lines of defense was more difficult to decide than he thought it would be.

\------------------

Morwenna sat stunned at the table, still blinking in disbelief at all she had heard from her sister in the moments they had been all alone to speak openly. 

Shortly thereafter, Drake Carne returned to Rowella’s home, but Arthur Solway’s family had also begun to show up at the wake. They stood around the table and spoke in hushed tones, dressed in matching black. 

Shortly after Drake had arrived, Dr. Enys showed up at Rowella’s house, looking worse for wear. His hair was askew and he looked to be exhausted from the day’s events. As soon as he spotted Morwenna, he strode over to her.

“I must speak with you about a very important matter,” he murmured, his tone at the volume of a mere whisper. “But we ought to speak in private.”

Morwenna peered around the small crowded house and its mess of intermingling people dressed in black and eating small tidbits of food that had been arranged on the table. 

“You can always step outside, Sister,” Rowella offered. “You will have ample privacy there.”

Morwenna nodded and stood up, proceeding outside with Dr. Enys. Rowella smiled up at her black curtains billowing in the wind. She stood at the head of the table, eavesdropping on the exchange. Dr. Enys began to speak first.

“That man that your mother-in-law had arrested was none other than—”

“Osborne,” Morwenna blurted.

Dr. Enys frowned with confusion. She had not alluded to knowing him as Osborne when he’d spoken to her mere hours ago.

“I have not known for very long," she explained. "In fact, I have only just learned so this very day.”

“He has been taken to Truro jail awaiting a hearing,” Dr. Enys said. “I informed him that an effective defense would be reinstating his identity as Osborne Whitworth. It is possible that by simply confirming his identity, his mother will promptly drop the charges. If not that, he hopes that George Warleggan will use his power as the Justice of Peace to show him mercy.”

Morwenna looked at him then, suddenly stricken with despair. All hope seemed to have instantaneously left her body, and her face looked hollow.

“That would mean my marriage to him is still valid. Regardless of why he decided to help us today, I cannot forget what a monster he was. I cannot!”

“It is a unfair consequence of all this, the resumption of your union,” Dr. Enys said, looking sympathetic. “I shall attempt to think of alternate defenses he can use that would not involve him revealing his identity. I have promised to visit him tomorrow. I will tell you of his decision after that time.”

Morwenna looked as if she were about to cry.

“When is the hearing to take place?”

“A week from tomorrow.”

\---------------------------------

Hours later, a quiet procession strode away from Truro’s main square and towards the cemetery, their path illuminated only by candles in the darkness of night. Several of the men in this procession worked together to carry a simple pine box containing the body of the young Arthur Solway. Arthur’s widow Rowella strode slowly behind his body, her face covered in a black veil. A priest walked beside her. Arthur’s mother and father walked several steps behind his widow, and Rowella’s sister Morwenna and her new beau Drake Carne were a distance behind the Solways with the remainder of the guests. The lot of them moved forward as a large hushed mass behind the main next-of-kin, refraining from speaking all the while. 

Morwenna could not help but peer over at Drake Carne. These might be the last days she would be able to be with him, to appreciate him and love him without fear of retribution. If Osborne’s case ruled in his favor, their marriage would again be valid and she’d be forced to stay with him. She reached out and held Drake’s hand, eliciting a surprised smile from the boyish smithy.

Even as Rowella strode to the cemetery to bury her husband, her mind was swimming with ideas. In fact, it was difficult to focus on the task at hand. In an hour from now, this would all be over and done with. Perhaps she should try for the sake of his family to appear the grieving widow.

As she turned her head to peer back at Arthur’s parents, a single tear slid down her cheek and she wiped it away. They flashed her a smile of pity and understanding in reply. _There._

\------------------------------------

“Is this where you want it?”

Morwenna peered at Rowella in a new light, as they moved the table back into the dining area. The house was now emptied of Arthur’s stiff white body, the funeral party having departed hours ago after burying him in Truro cemetery. She had stayed to help return Rowella’s home to normal, all the while inadvertently revealing Osborne’s current situation. 

“That is fine,” Rowella replied with a tight smile.

“Are you certain this is what you want?” Morwenna asked again, referring to what they’d spoken about at length nearly the entire length of the night following Arthur’s interment. She’d sat with mouth agape, listening to Rowella speak of her intentions and how she sought to achieve them.

Morwenna recalled growing up with Rowella. Her younger sister had always been the self-assured one, the most confident of the four sisters. The now 18-year-old’s ability to exert control and manipulate events and people to serve her best more than made up for any deficiency in her looks.

“It is, dear sister,” Rowella replied matter-of-factly. “I have no doubt it will benefit us all.”

Morwenna couldn’t help but gawk at her since the revelation, regarding her with a mix of awe and suspicion. Now it would soon be time for her to go to Drake’s smithy in Truro—she would not return to Sawle. 

Rowella proceeded to the windows to remove the black curtains that she’d hung up in preparation for the wake. She reached up to take one down but then pulled her arm back and turned back to her sister.

“Perhaps it can wait,” she said with a furtive smile.

“Are you certain you will be alright?”

“I have everything under control.” 

“Why am I not surprised?” Morwenna replied. “Of course you have. You always have.”

\---------------------------------------

“A visitor for thee,” the jailer announced in a singsong to the practically empty stone corridor. Osborne could hear the echoing announcement as he reclined in his cell at the very end of the long hall. He’d slept surprisingly well last night, free from the thought of his wife’s dalliances with the smithy, free from the fear of the smugglers getting to him during the night. Even so, he was still very sore from yesterday’s events. The red marks from his restraints were still visible on his wrists, his flogging wound burned, and he’d had to endure excruciating leg cramps intermittently all night.

He listened intently to the approaching sound but remained in position. Dr. Enys had promised to return today with information on his defense. He had thought of little else last night besides the most effective way to receive George Warleggan’s mercy: blackmail? Naming himself as Osborne Whitworth? Or merely speaking of his aristocratic connections and the benefits aiding him might entail?

Upon waking, he’d begun to ponder the death of Arthur Solway. Dr. Enys had very briefly mentioned it to him when he’d returned to the coach and hadn’t elucidated any of the details. Had Arthur been buried already? Was Rowella involved in that as well?

Osborne could hear nothing as his supposed visitor strode down the corridor. Surely he would have heard the click of Dr. Enys’s riding boots as they approached. Instead, he heard nothing.

Suddenly, he looked up to see a slender, shapely figure dressed all in black stopping in front of his cell, the face covered with a nearly opaque black veil. The figure was clearly a woman—was it Rowella?

“Vicar,” the woman said. The voice, even the delivery, was unmistakable.

“Rowella,” he replied, frowning at his inability to see her face behind the veil. “Take that ridiculous thing off.”  
The woman then lifted the veil off of her face, revealing the knowing grin of his former mistress. Though she was dressed in a widow’s garments, it was clear that she had not been crying.

“You look well,” she said, giving him a demure bow of the head.

“What are you doing here?” he blurted. Ever since he’d recognized her in Senara’s dungeon, Osborne had been dreaming of how the confrontation with Rowella would pan out. Perhaps he would simply show up at her doorstop and when she opened it, he’d force his way in and back her up against a wall and terrorize her as he described the agony he’d had to endure. Or it could have taken place in a relatively sparsely populated part of town, or perhaps even in a loud, bawdy part of town, the crowd’s noise able to drown out his yelling and subsequent assault of her. All of the scenarios in his head involved him instilling fear in her, fear and pain. He’d never considered Rowella having the upper hand when the time had come for their confrontation, least of all from the wrong side of a jail cell.

“Can you not surmise?” she answered, raising an eyebrow.

Her nonchalant attitude to all that he had suffered and all that he was currently suffering through enraged him, his anger building with each second her smug grin remained on her face.

He stood up and approached the bars, glaring her down with hatred. She stood in place, not moving toward or away from the bars. 

“Did you do all this?” he murmured, narrowing his eyes and speaking almost as low as a whisper.

“Whatever do you mean,” she replied in a deadpan, cocking her head and feigning ignorance.

“Everything,” he blurted, his lips trembling as he spoke. His emotions were threatening to get the better of him. He wanted to lunge at and throttle his seductress until she was dead, but he had been rendered wholly powerless in his cell. “Those men,” he said, staring right at her unblinkingly. “The island. Senara.” His eyes attempted to search her own, but she maintained her composure. 

“Yes,” she said simply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is anyone reading these latest chapters? I watch the hit counts but they don't show me the details. Lots of stuff coming up!


	32. Reasons

Chapter 32

Osborne’s eyes widened as he took in the sight of Rowella. She was, of course, safe from him on the other side of the bars, but her resolve went beyond that. On the other hand, his composure was ripping at the seams and he would not be able to control himself much longer. So she had been there in Senara’s dungeon, baring her feet to render him tongue-tied when Senara demanded he speak. Not only that, but she’d been the one to shackle him to the platform. And she had been the only one to cane him twice, in the place that caused the maximal amount of pain. 

He thought back. So _she’d_ arranged for the men to come to his house in the night and violate him. It was then that he’d returned to her house following his ill-fated trip to Bodmin. He recalled telling Rowella of Morwenna’s stubbornness, of her refusal to obey his command that she return home. It was that visit that had enacted the second phase of Rowella’s vengeance—his banishment to the island and all it encompassed. If he’d simply gone home after speaking with George Warleggan, he would have safely returned home to St. Sawle, protected by guards. Perhaps the second leg of his punishment would never have happened, had he not visited Rowella. His own lust had doomed him.

How could this mere woman, this _teenager_ at that, have such composure, such control, such innate wickedness within her? How did she know these horrible men, these smugglers that had violated him countless times and had marooned him and starved him? How did she know Senara? Her curt response brought up more questions than answers. Ever since he’d recognized her distinguishing birthmark in Senara’s dungeon, he had suspected Rowella to be the instigator of this entire ordeal. However, to have her admit to it outright and without a hint of shame or remorse was wholly unexpected. 

Had he and Rowella not had a mutually beneficial relationship? Had her moans of passion, her come-hither winks and bold flirtations, been merely factitious? Had he not paid her more than she was worth? Had he not spent a fortune setting up her newlywed life with Arthur? Had she lie with him for the monetary benefit and nothing more?

“Why?” Osborne snarled, his voice coming out louder than he’d intended. It was the beginning of the end now. He’d throw his body up against the bars, his arms flailing out to grab her, and she would claim assault or rape or some such thing and have his sentence result in a hanging. 

“My reasons were three-fold, in fact,” she said pragmatically. “Would you care to sit down while I explain?”

“No,” he growled. 

Osborne took several steps away from the bars and paced back and forth like a hungry tiger. He then stopped at the bars right in front of her, gripping the cold metal tightly with both hands, and glared at her with all the hatred he could muster.

“I could… strangle you for this,” he snarled. “I could wrap my hands around your neck and squeeze your life from your body.”

“I’m sure you _wish_ to do so,” she replied, smoothing her skirts and seeming to look for something in the corridor. “But it is clear that you cannot, at least not at the moment. And yet, surely you wish to know the reasoning behind all that you had to endure.”

“What reason could there be?!” he howled, slamming his hands against the bars.

Without even excusing herself, Rowella walked back the corridor, back toward the jailer. He lost sight of her soon thereafter, and slammed his fists against the bars again and again until he was sure they would bruise.

Within a minute or so, Rowella’s dark garb appeared in his field of vision once again. She was now carrying a chair. She sat down with the utmost calm in front of his cell and folded her hands in her lap. For some reason, this enraged Osborne further.

“How dare you simply walk away and leave me here to rot!” he roared. His voice became much softer for his next barb. “Do not try to look like some upper-class grieving widow. You are nothing but a heinous harlot. I’ve my suspicions that you are the cause of your own widowhood.” 

“Ah,” she said, abruptly standing up. “If you think me a murderess, then I should go, lest I slay you as well, right where you stand.”

With that, she left the chair in place and began striding down the corridor, quickly disappearing from his field of view.

“Come back here,” he growled. “Stop playing these bloody games. Rowella!”

He waited but heard nothing. After another minute of tense silence, Rowella appeared again in front of his cell.

“If you say another word about my marriage, I will leave and not look back,” she said, clearly annoyed at his implication, remaining standing. “Do you understand?”

He said nothing, fingers wrapped around the bars as he glared her down.

“I will not stay here another moment if you do not acquiesce. Not a word about Arthur. You are on the wrong side of the law right now, and no one need be here to visit you. In spite of what you may believe I did, you are far closer to the noose than I.”

Her final statement bothered him deeply. Had she heard something that he did not yet know? Had assault been added to the growing list of capital crimes for Cornwall? Osborne swallowed, feeling sick to his stomach.

“Do you understand?” Rowella spat again, awaiting his answer with impatience, her arms crossed across her chest. 

“I do,” he replied, much less certain of himself now, his rage dissipating as his shoulders slumped. 

“Now, I must ask you to sit down.”

He made an obstinate face and slammed his hand against the bars to drive forth his point.

“Do not tell me what to do, _Woman_.”

“If you should sit,” she began gently, “then we can speak in lower voices, and I will not feel physically threatened by you as I do right now. These corridors carry far more sound than you might suspect. I would not want the jailer to believe I am in fact being threatened by you, would you?”

He was rendered speechless for an instant, his mouth falling open. Rowella had in fact just threatened him in the most inoffensive manner possible. If she were to claim that he was threatening her right now, in addition to his other charges, it was entirely possible he would hang. He now understood why Rowella enjoyed reading so very much. Her enthusiastic consumption of literature had certainly aided her in weaving her words just so, using the appropriate vocabulary, order, and manner of delivery to steer him in some yet unknown direction. Though he was aware of the manipulation, he obeyed her command, lowering himself to the floor.

“I simply cannot conceive the justification for why you have chosen to destroy me,” he muttered, shaking his head with disbelief, the cold floor already starting to numb his backside.

“My reasons may surprise you,” Rowella replied in an upbeat voice. “In fact, I am certain they will.” 

From his lower vantage point, Osborne was now forced to look up at Rowella when she spoke. The very nature of his lower position seemed to temper the rage that had been steadily building inside him. He placed his hands in his lap and watched her, much like a dog waiting for table scraps.

“Recall that I have three reasons for all of this, so it’s best not to react until you’ve heard all three,” she began, sitting on the chair, looking much like a judge looming above him in her long black dress. “Does that sound reasonable?”

“Get on with it then,” he muttered, grimacing.

“My first reason is this: you deserved it for what you did to my sister. You have permanently injured my sister, body and soul. Now you know what she had to endure, day after day. I trust you have learned your lesson in that regard.”

With that, she peered down at him with a matter-of-fact expression on her face. The words she said were not in accord with her dainty voice and impassive face. This woman he’d presumed held some feelings for him, this woman who’d seduced and bedded him in his own home, had enacted her own form of vengeance against him for his treatment of another. He wasn’t certain how to respond to being told in a manner of speaking that he deserved to be tortured. The anger he should have felt about her saying such an awful thing was simply not there—he’d said the exact same thing to himself many times throughout this entire ordeal. He could not be angered by what was now established as fact by himself. The corner of his mouth twitched and he stared at his hands, the gravity of his sins fully resting on his now slumped shoulders, placed there by the woman who had hopelessly bewitched him beyond his better judgment.

“I gathered that your introspection would bring you to the same conclusion, and I very much appreciate your keeping your composure in light of hearing such things uttered aloud,” she commented. “You’re right; it is far better to keep this conversation between us.”

He looked back up at her with narrowed eyes, wanting very much to hate her for the despicable thing she had said. Even so, she often wove little compliments and reassurances into her replies, which had defused many a tense situation between them. Because of the compliments she had threaded within her explanation, he could only manage to glare at her, clamping his jaw shut and remaining silent in the meantime.

“My second reason is this: I wanted to learn more about your inner workings. Your response to Senara confirmed what I’d suspected; your libido is able to remain intact, regardless of the situation.”

His face twisted into that of alarm. So she’d suspected he would enjoy being buggered by a woman? Addressing her statement as a bygone conclusion was humiliating in and of itself.

“I’m not entirely sure what you mean by that,” he countered, his stomach suddenly feeling hollow. He shook his head, attempting to physically remove the memory of that dungeon. He now could not help but wonder: did Rowella think of that dungeon often, fantasizing about the day he had been broken? “No matter,” he added, “what is the third reason?”

“My third reason is this,” she continued. “I wanted your appearance to be dramatically altered. Not only because your former body was rather unsightly, but also to be certain that no one could possibly recognize you.”

“But why—”

“Osborne Whitworth is dead. My sister Morwenna is free now. Free to remarry, to enjoy—”

“Drake Carne,” Osborne groaned, rolling his eyes. “The _peasant boy_. Of course.” He peered up at her with irritation in his expression. “So what you’re saying is that all of this was done as vengeance for how I treated your sister, so that she can be with that poor blacksmith.”

“I’m not finished,” she added, raising her eyebrows. “ _You_ are also free to start anew, to remarry.”

“Ha,” he spat humorlessly. “As if I would ever put myself through that again.”

It was then that Rowella spread her legs beneath the heavy fabric of her black dress and leaned down coquettishly from her seated position, bringing her face within reach of his arms. Her bosom dangled in his face and he could peer into the cleft between her full breasts. He could feel his mouth moving now, attempting to form words but saying nothing.

His eyes widened, focusing on her face now, at her large green eyes, at the slight blush that had overcome her cheeks. She was the next to speak.

“Not even with a recent widow?”


	33. Persuasion

CHAPTER 33

Osborne stared up at Rowella quizzically now, suddenly lost. It was much like the first time she’d ever sat on his lap, unhooking her corset for him. Osborne Whitworth was floored and stupefied by Rowella’s proposition and could only stare at her, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.

“Might you clarify what you just said?” he finally managed to utter.

“Did I not make myself clear?” she responded, looking deep into his eyes. She shrugged then. “You and I can be together now.”

“Is this some sort of joke?” he murmured, eyes nervously searching the house. “Surely you can’t be serious.”

“Oh, but I am,” she countered confidently. “What makes you think I am not?”

“You just told me I deserve to be punished.”

She blinked now in mock surprise. “Have you _not_ been adequately punished? I could see to it personally that you receive more.” 

The statement alone caused a jolt of excitement to pass through him. His mouth turned dry as cotton—she was _flirting_ with him! He could not help but frown at her for her mixed signals, attempting to find the proper words to reply.

“I’m not sure what you are trying to get me to say,” he muttered, making a face of total confusion. “You know very well what I have been through, if your smuggler friends deigned to inform you.” He gestured to his cell. “You see that I am now awaiting a hearing for—”

“I know what you did,” she said with a smile, “which leads me to believe that you have indeed changed for the better. You did the right thing, helping my sister and Drake.”

Now Osborne could not help but smile haughtily at her, having not received any sort of praise for a very long time.

“Well, then,” he began in his usual singsong voice, “now that I have been redeemed in your eyes… I do suppose I would _consider_ marrying you.”

There was a pause as Rowella took in his statement. Concerningly for him, she did not smile in reply. Instead, her face turned grave.

“But then, I have also heard of your appalling treatment of my sister and Drake Carne while at Sawle, after she’d brought you into her home and nursed you back to health. She has told me some of the things you said to them, the way you treated them.”

“Am I not entitled to reject the suitor of my own bloody wife?!” he raged, caught off-guard by Rowella’s rebuke. “She flaunted her love for him, practically daring me to react. And when I did, she responded with quite the sharp tongue in kind. Did she tell you _that_?”

“She did,” Rowella said with a nod. “Her responses were another aspect of your punishment. You needed to hear how she really feels about your behavior.”

“Where does that leave me then?” he said. “I cannot imagine you came here just to talk to me about my wife.”

Now her face was serious.

“Have you decided that she is your wife then?”

Again she’d confused him, running circles around him with her quick tongue and quicker mind.

“What?”

“I have heard that you intend to reinstate your identity with the magistrate at your hearing. Ergo, you would again resume your marriage to my sister.”

It was true what she was saying. He could not marry Rowella if he was forced to stay married to Morwenna.

“Well, I—I hadn’t quite decided yet, but—”

“You cannot do this if you hope to marry me,” she said. “You will have to think of another defense.” 

“And then hang for it, I wager?!” he spat.

“Assault is not a hanging offense in these parts. I have personally heard of two others arrested for assault who George Warleggan subsequently sentenced to public humiliation.”

“What does that entail?” he hissed, dead serious. “Getting buggered by a woman again?”

“Ha ha!” she suddenly laughed. Quickly, she covered her mouth to stifle her giggles. “Nothing quite like that, I’m sure. More along the lines of a flogging. Now, if _buggering_ is of your continued interest—”

“What do you want me to do?” he blurted, his face full of hurt and confusion. His emotions were in a complete jumble from the simultaneous flirtation, threats, and scolding from Rowella as he sat helpless to stop it.

“You must _not_ reinstate your identity as Osborne Whitworth. You should create an alias for your hearing, and stick to it. I will ensure that no one speaks to the contrary. State your defense, take your punishment, and then we can be together.”

He could do no more than blink at her. What she was proposing he do was frankly, insane. So he was to forgo his own true name and the best hope for acquittal, rather concealing his identity in the hope that the woman who sought his torture would then marry him?!

Rowella could see that he was struggling with this proposal. Sighing, she pushed aside the heavy folds of her black dress, making it clear to him that she had neglected to wear undergarments. Her privates were exposed and right in line with his face.

“Dear God,” Osborne muttered, eyes locked on her nether regions. Rowella could hear him swallow loudly and lick his lips, appearing quite shaken by the revelation. Perhaps it was all she would need to do.

\------------------------- 

When Dr. Enys came by Osborne’s cell later on that very same day, Osborne’s face noticeably fell when he finally reached the end of the corridor to stand in front of his cell. A chair had been left here, clearly indicating an earlier visitor. He wondered who it could be, but the matter at hand had to be addressed first. The former vicar stood up and crossed his arms across his chest in a kind of protective way.

“Mr. Whitworth, I have told you that I would visit with you today,” Dr. Enys stated, bowing politely. “You seem to be disturbed at my presence.”

Osborne’s eyes darted about with terror as he moved toward the bars, glancing down the corridor as best he could.

“You cannot call me that,” he muttered, swallowing loudly as he backed up once more. 

“Am I to assume then that you will _not_ attempt to reassert your identity?” the physician asked, wrinkling his brow as he sat on the chair. “It _is_ , after all, your best chance of—”

“Of _what_?” Osborne spat. “Resuming a miserable existence with a woman who clearly loathes me, and children who neglect to recognize their own father?”

“I would not have put it that way,” Dr. Enys said, frowning. “I agree that resumption of your marriage to Morwenna is a significant negative consequence of this line of defense—”

“I have been told that the punishment George has meted out for this type of offense has been a flogging or some such public humiliation. Have you looked into his record on this?”

Dr. Enys made a brief face of disbelief and then quickly composed himself. He took a deep breath before replying.  
“Before coming here, I did look over the rulings for several of these types of cases, and you are correct.”

Osborne let out a loud sigh, his entire body heaving as he did so.

“So you are willing to be flogged in order to start again with a new identity?”

He could hear Osborne swallow—the man’s anxious body language suggested that he wasn’t quite sold on the idea.

“Ah, well—I’ve been flogged before,” Osborne said, breathing deeply. “It eventually ends.” _But a life of forced chastity does not _, he mused, grimacing.__

__“That is a mature way to look at it, I suppose,” Dr. Enys replied. “If that is your choice, I understand. What defense are you planning?”_ _

__“It is still very much in the works, but its basic elements have been established. I am grateful you have come, but I no longer need your assistance.”_ _

__“I see,” Dr. Enys replied. “Is there anything else you would like to talk about, anything you need? The manner in which your mother brought you in here was appalling and unfair.”_ _

__“Shh,” Osborne cautioned, his eyes darting around fearfully. “No one can know she is my mother.”_ _

__“Did someone put you up to this?” Dr. Enys suddenly said, suspicion in his gaze._ _

__“Whatever would give you that idea?” Osborne tittered nervously in reply. “This… plan was all my doing.”_ _

__Dr. Enys stood up, gesturing to the chair._ _

__“Your visitor left this chair right in front of your cell.”_ _

__“Ha,” Osborne chuckled nervously. “I should think that is no one’s business but my own, would you agree?”_ _

__Now Dr. Enys frowned._ _

__“I just want to be sure you are not being threatened into this. You seem… unsure.”_ _

__“I am not being _threatened_ ,” Osborne spat, uncrossing his arms and then re-crossing them. “I am, in fact, being _rewarded_.”_ _

__“By whom?”_ _

__“What, are you my lawyer now?” Osborne spat. “I did not realize I’d hired you to memorize every aspect of my existence,” he added, clearly irritated by the line of questioning. “Now I realize your inexplicable kindness towards me comes with a price.”_ _

__Dr. Enys made a face of annoyance._ _

__“What price is that?”_ _

__“Apparently the disclosure of my future plans. Which I am not prepared to share.”_ _

__The physician held his hands up in surrender and stepped away from the chair._ _

__“I assure you that that is not the case,” he said, shaking his head. “I was merely ensuring that you have decided this on your own volition.”_ _

__Osborne said nothing more, looking resolute._ _

__“I clearly see that I have overstepped a boundary,” Dr. Enys said, giving him a little bow. "I merely wanted to be sure that my testimony will not be needed on the day of your hearing." He took a step towards the vicar's cell. "In all honesty, I am glad you won't need my reassurances of your identity. In effect, you are doing Morwenna a great service, allowing her to be free of you."_ _

__"That is not the primary reason--"_ _

__“Of course," Dr. Enys interrupted. "I should have known that you've more... _self-serving_ reasons for it. I bid you good day. I am sorry for taking up your time.”_ _

__And with that, he left._ _

__\----------------_ _

__Morwenna settled down into a chair by the small cottage’s lone fireplace, her beau taking his place next to her. She wore his ring on her wedding finger but she did not look up at his joining her. Instead her eyes were entranced by the fire._ _

__“Seven days,” Drake murmured in a near whisper. “Can thee believe it?”_ _

__“No,” she said, pulling her arms around herself like a hug as she shook her head. “I cannot. Until his assumed name is officially recorded in the paperwork, I cannot rest easy. After all, claiming his true identity is his best defense.”_ _

__Morwenna had since told Drake of all her sister had revealed to her. The smithy was clearly excited beyond measure, but Morwenna’s joy had been tempered._ _

__“Think of what it mean for us if it do happen!” the blacksmith exclaimed. “I cannot stop thinkin’ about what is to come, hopin’ beyond hope!”_ _

__“I have become too accustomed to disappointment to expect such an outcome,” Morwenna muttered, continuing to stare at the fire. “What if he changes his mind? My sister seems to be convinced of her… power over him, but I fear it may not be enough.”_ _

__“Let’s just pray that it is, and have faith,” he said, reaching out a hand to her._ _

__Morwenna finally stopped staring at the flames and looked down at the hand that had been extended to her, taking it in her own._ _

__\----------------------------------------_ _

__Perhaps he’d been too hard on Dr. Enys. Osborne had sat in his cell now for six days, having had no visitors since his second day of captivity, in which both Rowella and Dr. Enys had visited him. He’d not complained about being left alone in his cell, because at least he was being provided bread and water. Other suspected criminals had been brought into the jail, but no one had been housed directly next to him. Jail was a lonely existence, but it was nowhere near as awful as his time on the deserted island with the smugglers to torture him every now and then._ _

__Every day he pondered if denying his identity and marrying Rowella would be the correct choice, but at every feeling of uncertainty, the thought of her exposed nether regions beneath her dress came into his mind. She wanted him; he was certain of that. He would never want for sex again. Rowella’s libido was as high as his own and she was always up for relations with him. It begged a further question: had she killed Arthur just to be with him, or was it some happy coincidence that the boy should die at the proper time?_ _

__He could understand why Dr. Enys had not visited, but why had _Rowella_ neglected to visit him these last five days? Was she really so confident that he would receive a perfunctory slap on the wrist, as it were, and not a sentence of death or transportation? She had claimed she wanted to marry him, but wouldn’t someone who desired such a relationship wish to see the object of their affection?_ _


	34. Magistrate Warleggan

Finally, the morning of Osborne Whitworth’s hearing had arrived. He was awakened shortly after dawn and made to stand up in his cell. By this point, his oversized outfit had accumulated quite a bit of dirt and dust on his clothing and red stubs of facial hair had begun to noticeably grow in. He could hear other prisoners along the corridor being awoken as well. The jailer and several other men came to collect the imprisoned, shackling each’s hands together and having them line up in the center of the corridor.

There were two men ahead of Osborne and three behind. Osborne was well aware of the subsequent walk of shame that would soon be taking place, in which the prisoners would be brought from the jail over to the courthouse roughly a quarter of a mile down the main thoroughfare of Truro. They’d be surrounded on all sides by jailers, all of whom would brandish firearms, and they’d shuffle in single-file through the door of the courthouse, a long table of bewigged officials waiting impatiently at the front.

As he was shoved unceremoniously forward out of the jail, he wondered for a moment if he’d even get a moment to speak. Depending upon the magistrate, many of them did not give suspected criminals time to make their case. He knew George Warleggan to be a ruthless banker, using all the tools at his disposal to accumulate more and more money at the expense of all others. But what was George like as a magistrate? He was soon to find out.

Several townsfolk stood in the street, watching the shackled men stride down the cobblestone on their way to the courthouse. Some of the townsfolk shouted various unintelligible things. Osborne did not attempt to find Rowella or any other recognizable people in the crowd, too distracted by his own thoughts. He’d finally decided on his defense and hoped George Warleggan would not let him down.

Osborne was ushered into the courthouse and watched the first man be pushed before the long table, where he stood, his hands shackled, before George Warleggan and a group of other stern-looking aristocratic men. The man he’d always gone to speak with inside his bank was now the image of the law, wearing a long black robe and impeccable white wig while sitting solemnly behind a stack of papers, a quill in his hand.

Osborne looked behind him at a group of spectators. His mother and Morwenna were notably absent. The absence of his mother in particular disgusted him, for he’d finally figured out the words to say today to make her realize what she’d done. Shaking his head with disappointment, he searched for any other recognizable people. Dr. Dwight Enys may have been present—he could not see for sure, for there was a large group of men standing off in a corner, muttering amongst themselves. And yet it was a woman in widow’s clothing who caught his eye, a woman whose face was obscured by a veil. Had Rowella come to witness what would happen to him here today? 

“Jonathan Teague,” one of the bewigged men announced, and the man’s papers were pulled off of the top of the pile by George.

A bewigged man sitting at the table read the affidavit against the defendant, a complaint of public drunkenness in the street outside the Red Lion Inn.

“Have you anything to say in your defense?” George asked the man.

“I was pushed outside of the inn, your Honor,” he muttered, looking contrite. “I was partaking of the inn’s merchandise an’ remainin’ inside the buildin’ an’ was shoved suddenly into the street—”

“So you’ve nothing to say about your inappropriate behavior, only that it was not meant to happen in the street?”

The defendant seemed to choke on his own words.

“I—I hadn’t intended to—”

“An inn is still a public place,” George replied coolly. “I find you guilty of public drunkenness and hereby sentence you to three hours in the pillory, to be carried out within the week.”

As George wrote on the paper in front of him with his quill, the first man was then escorted from the courthouse by various courthouse officials and was brought somewhere, most likely back to jail.

“Jack Wilson,” a bewigged man announced, and a second man stepped forward. Osborne would be next.

This man’s affidavit was read as well, a complaint of horse thievery. 

“And you, have you anything to say in your defense?” George spoke.

“I’d heard ‘twas a fire at home while I was workin’ at the mine. I simply meant to borrow th’ horse, Sir, and come right back with it after I do ensure the safety of my family.”

“Ah,” George commented, his mouth curling into a barely perceptible smile. “And was your family safe?”

“Yes,” Jack replied, smiling back. “The fire was—”

“And did you return the horse?” George interrupted, his smile gone. 

“I was apprehended before I could do so,” the accused stated, his smile disappearing as well.

“A simple no would have sufficed,” George answered, pursing his lips. “And as such, I find you guilty of horse thievery, a very serious crime indeed that is still considered a capital offense in many parts of England.”

Osborne gasped and swallowed, feeling instantly sick to his stomach. This was a nothing case—horse thievery? Had Dr. Enys and Rowella lied to him? 

“You claim you intended to return the horse at some point and yet it was not done,” George continued, looking stoic. “Out of mercy for your familial situation, I’ve decided to commit you for trial at the next assizes, with recommendation that you be sentenced to five years transportation.”

The man in front of him looked as if he were about to faint, with his shoulders falling as the courtroom officers gathered around him, shoving their hands under each arm as they took him from the courtroom.

 _Merciful Heaven_ , Osborne thought, his knees weakening with each moment he stood. _I’m doomed._

He stood, terrified, awaiting his name to be called, but there was some kind of delay, a delay that added to his growing fear and continued for a couple of agonizingly quiet minutes. Osborne could not help but look to the back of the room, to the woman all in black. She had since partially pulled the veil back off of her upper face, revealing curly blond hair and large green eyes. Her mouth was somehow still obscured, but he could see that it was Rowella Solway nee Chynoweth, come to watch his hearing. Osborne didn’t know whether to feel happy or betrayed at the sight of her, having come to watch him receive a death sentence.

“Get on with it—name the next defendant,” George finally spat with a sneer. “We haven’t got all day.”

“There’s no name on the affidavit,” the bewigged announcer admitted. 

“Well, that’s grounds for dismissal right there,” George muttered in reply. 

Osborne’s heart leapt into his chest. Would he be able to walk free without needing to say another word?

“However,” George added, quill still in hand as he fidgeted in his chair, “I may be… familiar with this case. Name the crime.”

“Assault. The man assaulted Lady Katherine Whitworth and two of her bodyguards,” the bewigged man announced.

“Right,” George Warleggan said, smiling grimly. “I do recall this case. Which one of you four is being addressed in this complaint?”

Osborne froze, just as did the other three men. He could only stare wide-eyed and slack-jawed at his former associate, terrified to say anything.

Now George was smiling a truly sinister smile. 

“I suppose I wouldn’t want to admit to this crime either,” he began, “but if the accused does not step forward, he is condemning every last one of you to the noose.”

“What?” one of the men behind him yelled out. 

“You can’t be serious,” another man muttered, shaking his head as he glared at the four remaining defendants. “Step up, man!”

Osborne took a halting step forward, his head bowed low, stomach swimming with nausea. 

“That would be me,” he answered, his voice thin. Receiving no response, he raised his eyes to look at George Warleggan, who was now smiling triumphantly. He could feel chills running down his spine to be on the wrong side of his powerful associate.

“Ah,” George said, his tone pompous as he scanned Osborne from head to toe, most assuredly noticing his extremely ill-fitting attire. He held up his quill in preparation to write. “And what might _your_ name be?”


	35. The Ruling

CHAPTER 35

“Ah,” George said, his tone pompous as he scanned Osborne from head to toe, most assuredly noticing his extremely ill-fitting attire. He held up his quill in preparation to write. “And what might _your_ name be?”

“William,” the former vicar began, swallowing audibly, his voice quavering as he spoke. “William Osborne Penrose.”

“Penrose,” George muttered, shaking his head. “Ah. You seem vaguely familiar to me. And yet the name doesn’t ring a bell. _Penrose_.”

“It’s a distant branch of the Godolphins,” Osborne quickly replied, glad that he was still wearing his now soiled but obviously upper-class clothing from Sawle. “I spent more than one summer of my youth visiting relatives at the great Godolphin Estate, learning my letters by the fountain in the East Gardens.”

He flashed a toothy, sheepish smile at his judge upon finishing his statement.

“I see,” George said, seeming to soak in his impromptu link to Cornish aristocracy. “And what have you to say in your defense, _William Osborne Penrose_?” 

“It was a simple misunderstanding,” Osborne explained. “Lady Whitworth’s bodyguards were rushing into a building and I was standing in the doorway. I could not get out of the way in time and they ran into me at full speed, causing me to lose my footing. I… reflexively attempted to reach out to regain my footing, and… one of them staggered into Lady Whitworth and she lost her footing as well.”

George Warleggan did not seem to be satisfied with his answer. He narrowed his eyes incredulously as he replied.

“Is that your defense?”

Now Osborne swallowed loudly, his eyes darting nervously around him and then back at George Warleggan, who was now looking down while reading the affidavit. He could see George’s eyes moving as he carefully scanned the document. He would hang for this offense—he was certain of it. Perhaps Lady Whitworth had already met with George, to pay him off, as it were, which was why he didn’t dismiss the case outright as he should have. 

Should he forget about this defense and attempt to convince George that he was Osborne Whitworth instead? Should he make a vague statement about George’s underhanded affairs with the hope that George would catch on to its meaning? His mind spun with what he should say next, and he glanced back at Rowella, her expression wholly unreadable. Instinctively, he scanned downward to see that his mistress’s naked foot was sliding out of its shoe.

 _God in Heaven_ , he mused, licking his lips. _How is she able to control me so?_

“Ahem,” a voice in front called out impatiently, and his head jerked back around to see that George Warleggan was preparing to speak. He’d run out of time. George Warleggan held up the affidavit, waving it around as he spoke.

“In fact, this sworn affidavit from Lady Whitworth paints quite a different picture than your story. It states that you were impersonating a dead man, one Osborne Whitworth, during the commission of the assault. You are fortunate that Lady Whitworth did not press charges against you for criminal impersonation as well.”

Osborne gulped. He had wondered if the aspects of that day had been included in the affidavit; apparently they had. 

“I can explain—” Osborne began haltingly, but was interrupted by the magistrate.

“I am wont to distrust unsubstantiated testimony coming from a person whose very name is unsubstantiated,” George cut in. With that, he lowered the paper, his face grim. 

“I hereby find you guilty of assault. Your supposed Godolphin connections notwithstanding, it is clear that you had maliciously targeted Lady Whitworth in direct contempt of the law and this sort of behavior cannot go unpunished.”

Osborne took in a deep quavering breath, hanging his head and shutting his eyes, awaiting the sentence. 

“Thereby, I am sentencing you to forty lashes from the cat as punishment for your crime, to be carried out within the week in Truro town square.”

Instantly Osborne opened his eyes, blinking as he stared down at the floorboards of the courtroom. He then lifted his eyes to look at George Warleggan, who was now writing his decision on a piece of paper. Life was indeed surreal, he mused: his mistress had orchestrated his lengthy torture, his own mother had condemned him to be punished, and his former associate and partner-in-crime had chosen his punishment. And not only that, but his long-suffering wife had been the only one to _not_ subject him to punishment, rather helping him to recover! 

As the court officers approached him, he could not help but close his eyes and solemnly thank the heavens for sparing him his life. When he opened his eyes again, he had been turned around and could now see Rowella in the back of the courtroom, flashing a smile at him. How had such terror so instantly become such utter relief, perhaps even joy?

Before he could even acknowledge his intended, the court officers promptly escorted him out of the large courthouse room. Now he was probably headed back to Truro Jail, most likely, to await his sentence. Strangely, he could feel his entire body shaking, though his hearing was over and he had been reassured that Rowella was still interested in him. His teeth chattered so loudly that he became quite self-conscious of the sound, as he attempted to keep pace with the men surrounding him on both sides.

He’d survived and most importantly had _not_ had to rely on his real name to receive such a sentence. As he strode alongside his jailer back to the Truro Jail, he wagered that it was in fact his mention of his Godolphin connection and the fountain by which he had indeed spent some of his childhood that had convinced George Warleggan to be lenient. In fact, he had assumed the identity of one of his own long-deceased relatives. Had his mother been present in court today, she would have recognized the name.

Some of the crowd was still waiting outside, and he could not help but smile with relief as he passed them by on his way back to the jail. How had he gotten to this point, to be happy about the prospect of being publicly humiliated with a flogging, of being paraded before his peers in shackles and soiled, ill-fitting clothing? It was as if his banishment to the island and the subsequent torture he had to endure there and in Senara’s dungeon had prepared him for this moment. As much as this punishment would hurt and embarrass him, he would be able to go home to his seductress, the newly single Rowella, waiting for him in a scandalous state of undress. And that was enough to keep his head up all the way back to the Truro Jail.

\----------------------

“‘Tis the day,” the jailer announced in a chipper voice, as he stood before Osborne’s cell at daybreak. Osborne immediately sat up from his ratty straw mattress, squinting up at the man incredulously. It was the very next morning after his hearing. He hadn’t yet received a post-sentencing visit from his intended, a visit to lift his spirits and prepare him for the pain. He hadn’t even had time to steel himself for the humiliation of this day, in spite of the rewards it would eventually bring him. Forty lashes. He could not help but blanch. He would be shirtless, in early November, his body on display for all of Cornwall to see. It had been a mere ten lashes that had made him collapse on the island. Would he even be able to survive this?

The dreamy relief he’d felt upon being sentenced just yesterday was fast-fading, replaced with a sense of dread. He’d watched his share of public floggings and recalled the blood splattering over the crowd with every lash, the fainting of the most hardened criminals under the cat o’ nine tails. There’d been plenty of tears shed from criminals and witnesses alike during the floggings, and every criminal he’d witnessed being flogged had had to be carried away from the whipping post afterwards. He was simply not strong enough to endure this. Perhaps in his obese state he would have had ample padding to soak up the lashes, but now he was slender, his back bony and thin-skinned. Just the single horsewhip lash from his mother’s bodyguard had ached him for days afterward. Yes, he might be brought to Rowella’s house immediately after the flogging, but would he even survive long enough to see his wedding day to her?

\-----------------------

The click of the shackles had become a familiar sound to him. He peered down at his wrists, at the sight of the rusted shackles that had begun irritating his already rope-damaged skin there. The jailer grabbed him by the chain between the shackles and pulled him out of his reverie, down the long corridor to the outside of the jail.

The bright sun blinded him as he stepped out of the jail. The town square of Truro, where the whipping post and the pillory were located, were not far from the jail. He’d hoped that by the day of his punishment, he’d have two weeks’ beard growth obscuring his face, but it was not to be. There was a particularly strong upside to this, however: the sooner this punishment was over with, the sooner he’d be with Rowella.

Osborne kept his head down as he was brought to the town square. There, he saw a sizable crowd of mostly poor townsfolk gathered around, waiting for him. Perhaps word had gotten around that he’d used a link to aristocracy to weasel his way into a lesser sentence. Surely they did not know who he truly was—at least, he hoped not.

Would his mother be in attendance today? Had Lady Whitworth made the trip to the town square to unwittingly watch her own son be beaten like a common thief? 

Had Rowella come to watch the spectacle? This punishment would surely humiliate him, make him cry and beg for mercy. No future wife of his should see him emasculated in such a way.

His eyes scanned the crowd. There was his mother Lady Whitworth, seated some distance from the whipping post, her clothing much less grandiose than she’d worn when last he’d seen her, her face stoic and determined. And there was Rowella. She’d neglected to wear a mourning dress and instead was clothed in a white frilled gown that was entirely too low cut for propriety. Perhaps she could serve as a welcome distraction for him, to take his mind off of the pain and humiliation of today. She’d already witnessed him being completely stripped of his dignity—and clothing—in Senara’s dungeon, and this could be no worse than that had been.

The jailer marched Osborne up to the whipping post, a large carved square post several feet taller than he was, with shackles built in to the sides, forcing the condemned to hug the post as they were beaten.

His own shackles were promptly removed, and the jailer gave his next command.

“Shirt off.”

Osborne felt a chill run through him before he’d even begun to remove his shirt. It was a rather chilly early November day and his only saving grace was the full sun beaming down on the town square. Perhaps his skin would freeze before the cat could destroy it.

Keeping his eyes low and averted from all who came to watch, Osborne slowly removed his shirt and handed it to the jailer, gooseflesh appearing instantly on his exposed skin. He was suddenly aware that he’d neglected to tie his oversized pants and drawers tightly about his waist this morning. What if they were to slip down mid-flogging? As he was fastened to the post via the built-in shackles, Osborne leaned his forehead against the cold wood, cursing his mother and George Warleggan for this. All the while, he remained perfectly quiet, for soon he would be yelling out and making a spectacle of himself.

Suddenly a voice called out, a voice that made it perfectly clear why the crowd was here. 

“He should be strung up!” 

The voice was joined by other voices, many shouting unintelligible things, but some phrases he was able to understand.

“Must be that Godolphin luck!”

“Warleggan favors the rich!”

He turned his head to glance at who was speaking, and saw Dr. Enys standing nearby, arms crossed and with a serious expression.

The crowed was soon hushed by the hulking presence of someone approaching from behind him. He attempted to turn his head to view this person and his eyes immediately caught sight of the cat o’nine tails the burly man was holding. 

A bewigged man holding a scroll, clearly some kind of court official, stepped in front of Osborne’s soon-to-be punisher, and read the crime.

“William Osborne Penrose, you have been found guilty of assault and have been sentenced to forty lashes with the cat, to be carried out henceforth.”

Osborne glimpsed at his mother, who was now making a face of shock and had seemed to rise up out of her chair. The name he’d chosen for his alias was that of his father’s maternal great-uncle, a man he’d been told that he greatly resembled. The auburn-haired man had died many years ago, before Osborne had been born, having lived out his short life in Godolphin Cross in Breage, some twenty-one miles from Truro. His faded portrait was probably still hanging in the Whitworth estate. His mother was meant to have heard this yesterday at his trial. Would she now consider that she had made a grave error and stop this madness?


	36. His Accuser

CHAPTER 36

“You will count out each stroke,” the court official said to Osborne. “The physician on site is Dr. Dwight Enys, who will monitor the safety of the flogging. The punishment will now commence.”

Now Lady Whitworth was frowning. Dwight Enys had been there the day she’d brought this man to the jail. He’d seen this man in scanty clothing, had warned of permanent damage to his hands, had had to stop the coach to help this man stand back on his feet. If she announced this was in actuality her son, he would be the first to speak against her, to cast judgement. Promptly, she sat back down, embarrassed.

Osborne had no time to think, or to hope that his mother would stop this. He quickly turned his head back to the front, gritted his teeth and shut his eyes.

The first lash made him bellow and arch his back, striking him like a hot knife slashing through the skin between his shoulders. He tasted blood in his mouth and knew he’d bitten his tongue.

“Count your strokes,” his flogger growled.

“One,” Osborne murmured, almost inaudibly. 

A couple of seconds later, the second lash struck him and he could not help but cry out again, his body beginning to shiver violently. He hung his head, his eyes welling with tears, as he named the second stroke.

“Two.”

More strokes came, and with it came a loss of control. His entire body trembled noticeably, and with each new stroke, his body writhed about like that of someone possessed. He’d since forgotten about his audience, the pain was so great. 

“Five,” he said with a sniffle, counting the fifth knife-like stroke into his flesh of his back. 

Why had his mother said nothing? Surely she knew it was her own son being flogged in front of her very eyes. Was her shame so great that she had chosen to keep it to herself? 

By the tenth stroke, he’d bitten his lips and tongue so much that blood ran down his chin, in addition to the hot blood oozing down his back. It was difficult for him to breathe, and he gasped for air, his body betraying him with its constant shaking. He openly wept, snot running over his mouth and tears spilling from his eyes. He had received this many strokes on the island and had collapsed from it. How would he ever survive thirty more of these?

The next lash struck too low on his back, causing Osborne’s baggy breeches to slip down. Though Osborne tried to spread his legs to stop his pants from falling down, they slipped all the way down to his knees, exposing his drawers to the crowd. His shackled hands meant he could do nothing to fix his pants or cover himself up. Completely humiliated, he bowed his head and shut his eyes tightly, the thudding of his heart and jeers of the crowd filling his ears. But then a voice rose above it. 

“I demand to see this man!”

Dr. Enys had raised a hand and quickly pushed past the flogger to aid Osborne. Osborne choked back a sob; why had his mother said nothing? Why, instead, did this impossibly altruistic man have to keep coming to his rescue, and not his mother or his betrothed? Osborne could not even raise his eyes to look at Dr. Enys.

The physician stepped forward, promptly pulling up his pants. He peered at the crowd, not satisfied with what he’d done so far.

“Does anyone have a rope?”

The jailer handed Dr. Enys a rope, which he fastened about Osborne’s hips, attempting to keep Osborne’s clothing in place. He did not go back into the audience, however; he stood close to Osborne’s face and reached over to Osborne’s shackled wrist, placing his fingers on it to take Osborne’s pulse.

Now that the flogging had been paused, Osborne took a moment to glance around as he kept his head bowed, his misty eyes finding Rowella, who looked concerned for him. He also stole a pitiful glance at Lady Whitworth, who was definitely standing up, her face clearly troubled.

“His pulse is dangerously fast and he has lost a great deal of blood,” Dr. Enys commented aloud. “I recommend either a waiting period, a resumption of the flogging at a later date, or for the remainder of the sentence to be commuted. Is Magistrate Warleggan present?”

The townsfolk glanced around themselves, and it was soon clear that George Warleggan was not in attendance.

Lady Whitworth began shoving her way through the crowd, making her way to the front. “I am the person who accused this man of the crime, and I am satisfied with the stroke count as it stands.”

“Who is the authority here?” Dr. Enys called out. “It must be their decision.”

The court official with the scroll stepped forward. He peered down at the document before him, then back at the debutante.

“Are you Lady Whitworth, Madam?” he said, speaking directly to Osborne’s mother. 

“I am,” she said, looking with uncharacteristic pity at the bloody, half-dressed man at the whipping post.

“Are you satisfied that adequate justice has been dispensed for the crime against your person?”

“I am.”

“Then that shall settle it. The stroke count shall stand at eleven.” With that, the court official turned to the jailer. “You may now release the prisoner.”

\----------------------------

Dr. Enys assisted in keeping Osborne on his feet after his wrists had been freed from the shackles affixed to the post. Rowella even stepped forward in her white gown, staining it with his blood as she pulled one of his arms over her shoulder and, along with Dr. Enys, escorted him from Truro town square.

At the same time, Lady Whitworth could not help but feel extremely ill at ease. Could this really be her son, her only child, the man she’d just permitted to be flogged in public? The alias he’d chosen had been far more of a hint to his true identity than an oddly-shaped birthmark and the seemingly rehearsed facts he’d chosen to reveal when she’d come to Sawle. She knew that upon her return home, she would be looking upon the very portrait of the long-deceased William Osborne Penrose, and would have to accept the fact that she had not only failed to recognize her own son, but had also had him viciously beaten.

She had to think about the ramifications of what she had done. Could she even acknowledge this aloud? Even so, if he were Osborne, why would he not have stated his own name instead of one of his long-deceased relations? Without saying a word to the bloody, half-conscious man staggering away from the whipping post, Lady Whitworth returned in haste to her coach so she could ponder this revelation further.

“Where shall we take you?” Dr. Enys asked Osborne, the blonde woman under Osborne’s other shoulder replying instead.

“To my house,” she stated matter-of-factly.

Dr. Enys blinked with suspicion, until he saw Osborne turn his head to look at Rowella.

“That is correct,” he said, attempting a feeble smile.

“I will accompany you, to ensure he makes it inside safely. His wrists and back are going to require medical care.”

“Thank you, Dr. Enys,” Rowella stated. “What would we do without you?”

\-----------------------------

The knock on the door startled Morwenna, who leapt from her position in front of the fire. She moved quickly to the door, hearing the clanks of metal on metal stopping outside at the same time.

“The punishment for Mr. Penrose is done, an’ he was brought to Mrs. Solway’s house. Queer name, that is—William Penrose. Surely he do not hail from these parts. How did ye say ye knew him?”

“He—he came to my home in the middle of the night, quite ill, several weeks ago.”

“Ah. Mayhap he’ll return to where he came from.”

“Perhaps so,” she replied, leaning heavily against the doorjamb, feeling lightheaded at the revelation. So Osborne had renounced his own name and had gone home to Rowella, just as her sister had told her he would do. She was free from him at last.

“I shall go now, Ma’am. Good day to thee.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

At that, Morwenna bowed her head and flashed the messenger a genuine smile just before she closed the door. Drake arrived shortly thereafter from his smithy and saw the happy expression on Morwenna’s face as he entered the house.

“It’s over,” she said, crying with joy as she pulled Drake into a tight embrace. “He’s gone with Rowella now. He did not attempt to reclaim his identity today. It’s over at last!”

After the hug had ceased, immediately Drake went to a knee.

“Morwenna, would thee marry me?”

“I would be honored to be your wife, Drake Carne,” she wept into his ear, tears of joy streaming from her eyes as she hugged him. 

\-----------------------------------

It was the following morning that there was an unexpected knock upon the door of Rowella Solway’s home in Truro. 

“Could that be Dr. Enys checking in at this hour?” Osborne muttered, his voice gravelly and thick with exhaustion. He’d had to sleep last night on his belly, his back covered in strips of clean cloth that Dr. Enys had affixed over each of his eleven lacerations. It had been the first time he could recall lying abed with Rowella without partaking in some kind of intimate relations. The way his body felt right now, with his back on fire and the laughter of much of Truro in his ears, he wasn’t sure his libido would ever return.

“He said he would be by in the afternoon, once he’d attended to some business in town,” was the reply from Rowella. “Let me see who it is.”

The door was opened, revealing the troubled face of none other than Lady Whitworth.

“May I help you?” Rowella said coldly, frowning at the woman.

“I have been told my son was taken here.”

With a sharp intake of breath, Osborne rolled himself over and sat upright in bed, staring the direction of the door.

Rather than wait for a reply, Lady Whitworth pushed past Rowella into the house, her eyes scanning its small dim interior, and spotted the man she was searching for abed, looking pale and startled as he gaped at her.

“Osborne,” she said, with a face of pity, holding out her arms as she quickly moved through the house on her way back to his bed. As she approached him, she could see the damage that had been done to him. Though his back was covered in bandages, she could clearly see the crimson color of blood that had soaked through them, and cringed.

“What?” he shot back accusingly, his arms crossed defensively across his chest. Lady Whitworth reached out to touch his shoulder, but he pulled away.

“Now, Son, why on Earth did you not mention your resemblance to your great-uncle the other day, when I came to Sawle? That would have been enough to convince me.”

He did not look at her, instead speaking through gritted teeth as he glared down at the floor.

“And yet, not the birthmark I showed you, nor any and all pertinent information about my life that I had been prepared to share with you, if you’d only asked.”

“So now this is all _my_ fault?” she retorted, affronted. Now he looked up and scowled at her.

“Yes, in fact, it _is_ your fault, Mother,” he snarled. “You have utterly destroyed my reputation and in effect, have killed your only son.”

“Reputation,” she spat dismissively. “Speaking of which, who is this… person you are staying with?” she blurted, gesturing to Rowella. She peered around the small cottage, at its peeling walls, meager furniture, and threadbare rugs. “What is this… cesspool you are staying at, hmm? Where is your _wife_?”

“Did you not hear me?” he snapped, raising his voice. “Osborne Whitworth is dead. _I_ have no wife.”

Rather than reply right away, Lady Whitworth took a couple of steps back and touched her chin, seeming to think about something. After several moments had passed, she flashed him a knowing smile.

“I see what is going on here. I am but a mere pawn in your attaining freedom from that awful wife of yours. With my failure to recognize you, you are now free to start anew with this… _harlot_ , free from the woman that could only bear you one child in four years, no matter how often you attempted to create more.”

“Morwenna is the only blameless one in all of this,” he replied with a grimace. “I treated her appallingly throughout our marriage. I was an utterly detestable husband in all ways. And yet, when my kidnappers returned me to Sawle, she did not hesitate to take me in and restore me to health. She deserves far better.”

“Ah, so you are doing this for her, then?” she replied, raising her eyebrows. “And not to be with this strumpet, hmm?”

“How dare you!?” he roared, shaking his head with disappointment. “How dare you show your face here, after you had your own son horsewhipped, pulled behind your coach for six bloody miles, and flogged like some common thief! Just look at what they did to me!”

He leaned forward and reached behind him, pulling one of the white strips of cloth off of one of the flogging wounds, revealing the deep slash with angry purple borders. Lady Whitworth’s eyes went wide and she grew visibly pale. His face determined, he gritted his teeth as he yanked another strip off more rapidly than he should have, causing another flogging wound to begin bleeding again. 

Lady Whitworth fainted.


	37. A Request

CHAPTER 37

Morwenna and Drake strode out of the Methodist Church in Truro, arm in arm, striding along like giddy schoolchildren. 

“So for three Sundays the banns will be read, beginning tomorrow,” Drake said with a smile, “and then we shall wed. I have sent a letter to Sam and Demelza telling them of our happy news.”

“I will be glad to see them again,” Morwenna admitted. “Last time I encountered them, it was at Osborne’s funeral. I was in no state to speak to anyone.”

“Aren’t life strange?” Drake grinned, kissing her hand. “It will be as if the last couple of years never e’en happened! We can pick up right where we left off!”

That had been the wrong thing to say. Now Morwenna had ceased to skip, her enthusiasm leaving her.

“I’m sorry, ‘Wenna,” Drake immediately apologized. “I shan’t meant to say somethin’ hurtful…”

“It’s John Conan,” she replied. “As much as I can happily forget most else about my marriage, I cannot and do not wish to forget my son.”

“I understand,” he said, bowing his head and making a face of sadness. “I apologize for utterin’ such a thing. Perhaps when we have our own, that space in your heart do fill once again.”

“Our own what? Children?” she said. 

“Aye.”

“I’m sorry, Drake,” Morwenna confessed, shaking her head. “But I am not ready for that. I may never be ready for that.”

He had made her cry, and now he felt terrible. 

“May I hug thee?”

She remained several steps from him, looking up at him with despair.

“You can always change your mind, Drake. We can return to the church now, and tell them to forget the banns. You deserve a wife you can lie with you, who will provide you children, who will—”

“I want you,” he said. “’Tis all I want, ‘tis all I ever wanted.”

“Even if I am not capable of—?”

“Aye,” he said, staring deep into her eyes, though she tried to avert her gaze. “I love thee just as ye are, howe’er that be.”

\-------------------------

When Lady Whitworth recovered from fainting, she found that she had been placed in a chair next to her son’s bed in this strange woman’s house. Osborne had since removed all the dressings from his wounds and sat at an angle so as to make them obvious to her when she regained consciousness.

At the sight of the hideous, unsightly marks, Lady Whitworth felt faint again, her stomach swimming with nausea.

“Oh, the horror…. Your beautiful skin, ruined,” she said, swallowing and shaking her head. “I could have stopped it. Right when they said that name aloud, I knew—and yet, I hesitated.” She reached out to touch him on the leg. “I’m so sorry, my boy.”

Osborne did not react to her touch and instead stared at the floor, extremely perturbed by his mother’s entitled behavior up to this point.

“I know that more than anything, you wanted your children back, if your letter was any indication,” Lady Whitworth added. “However, this… _place_ … is less than ideal for any human to endure…”

“I cannot support three children now,” Osborne blurted, shaking his head. “I’ve no job. No income. This is now my home. And these wounds will take weeks to heal, weeks in which I cannot provide for Rowella and myself.”

_And I cannot do all the licentious sexual things I wish to do with that woman with two young girls in tow_ , he mused. 

“And Rowella?”

“She is a widow, alone,” he replied. “She has no money either.”

“As my heir, _I_ can provide you with—”

“Osborne is dead,” he spat. “Your son is dead. He is not coming back. You have seen to that. Can you hear them gossiping now; the Reverend Whitworth was whipped in front of all of bloody Truro at his own mother’s order! I would never live it down and neither would you, Mother.” 

“I beg your pardon,” Rowella interjected, taking a step toward the mother and son, “but if you endeavour to improve your son’s new accommodations, _I_ would be more than happy to accept funds on his behalf. The roof leaks badly and brings with it a terrible draftiness in cold weather.”

Lady Whitworth made a sour face and dug into the pockets of her dress. She pulled out a small bag filled with coins and held them out for Rowella.

“This should provide you enough funds to fix this hovel up,” Lady Whitworth grumbled. “It is the least you can do upon having the good fortune to snag a Godolphin.” She peered around at the squalid conditions—the heavily scratched furniture, dirty rugs, and the pots scattered all over the bedroom floor. Apparently, this woman was not lying about the roof leaking. Lady Whitworth rolled her eyes dramatically. “Surely your father is rolling in his grave at this… this descent from grace.”

“Speaking of parentage, there _is_ one thing you can do for me,” Osborne said, “John Conan’s mother is still very much alive. Not only that, but she has and always has had the means to take care of her own child. I request that John Conan be returned to his mother at once.”

Lady Whitworth blanched, covering her mouth with a hand.

“You mean, you wish for _Morwenna_ , who threatened to smother—?”

“It was my fault entirely that she felt compelled to utter such a thing. Morwenna would never allow for her child to be harmed, and certainly would never harm him… unlike you.”

He’d truly struck a nerve with his mother, who visibly recoiled at his statement.

“If you are truly sorry for the pain and humiliation you have caused your only child,” he interrupted, “then you will honor my request.”

\------------------------------------------------

Morwenna sat reading a book while listening to the rhythmic clang of her fiancé’s blacksmithing tools in the shed next door. All of a sudden, a clip-clop of horse’s hooves abruptly stopped outside the house and the clanging stopped as well. She could hear the sound of a coach door shutting and stood up, frowning at the door with suspicion. What was going on?

The banns had been read for the first time at the church yesterday morning. Had someone come to call, to deny them the right to marry? Immediately she felt panicked. There were many untoward reasons why someone might come to call today: perhaps to impede her wedding, or to arrest Drake for blocking Lady Whitworth’s way to the carriage, or perhaps to positively identify her husband as the man who’d been flogged in the town square three days before. 

There came a knock upon her door. Fear welled up inside her and she began to hyperventilate. She could hear her heart thudding in her chest over the rapping at the door and yet she continued to approach.

When she opened the door, a footman stood quietly, his hands behind his back, but it was the person in front of the footman who got her attention. 

“John Conan!” she exclaimed, kneeling down on the ground. “My darling!”

“Mama!” the little boy cried happily, toddling over to her and hugging her. She picked up the child and held him tightly in her arms, looking with confusion at the footman.

“A letter from Lady Whitworth,” the footman said, pulling out a folded piece of paper. Balancing John Conan on her hip, she held out a hand and took the paper, unfolding it between her fingers.

Tears welled in her eyes as she read the letter. Lady Whitworth was permanently returning John Conan to her! He was now hers once again and the letter confirmed that Lady Whitworth had completed the proper paperwork to legalize the decision.

Drake appeared beside the footman, who stepped aside to allow him entrance to his house.

“What’s going on?” he said quizzically.

“It’s John Conan!” exclaimed Morwenna, beaming as she held her dark-haired boy. She handed him the letter. “He’s staying!” She was truly ecstatic at the news and he delighted seeing her in such a state.

“What a dream come true, my love!” he exclaimed, smiling widely at her in return. “Our family is now complete.”

And with that, he enveloped his betrothed and the little boy in her arms in a tight hug.

\----------------------------

“Why are you worried?” Rowella stated, having lugged over the last kettle of warmed water. “Dr. Enys has confirmed that the healing is already well underway.”

Osborne sat at the table in the meager kitchen, eyeing the tub nervously as Rowella dumped the water into it. He could not help but think of the pain of the flogging a mere three days ago. Would exposing the wounds to water make them ache again, as they had nearly every moment of the last couple of nights?

How could the prospect of getting naked make him feel so uncomfortable and uneasy? He could not help but be disappointed at his utter lack of libido; surely he was dissatisfying Rowella in kind. And knowing his ordeals these past two months were because of Rowella had caused him to be a great deal more anxious and fearful around her than he would have ever admitted aloud. He was not the Osborne with whom Rowella had carried on her illicit affair for so long. Had she lied about wanting to marry him?

Ever since he’d been brought to Rowella’s home, she had not brought up her proposal of marriage again. Then again, neither had he. He’d spent the vast majority of his time at her home thus far sleeping, sitting around in relative silence, or having his wounds inspected or redressed by Dr. Enys. Anxiety and fear crippled him, stifling his normally huge appetite for food and sex. The money his mother had gifted Rowella had not yet been used for its intended purpose; the roof leaked constantly, dripping rhythmically into various kettles set up at various places on the floor. The rugs were barely thick enough to take away the shock from placing a bare foot on the cold wood beneath. Perhaps his libido would never return. He felt paranoid that Rowella was not finished punishing him, in spite of his supposed good deeds; perhaps this flogging and the healing that followed had merely afforded him a short respite in her grand plan to have him publicly executed or tortured in Senara’s dungeon again. In addition, he was anxious to know if his mother had honored his wishes and returned John Conan to Morwenna. 

“Surely you would not refuse a bath,” Rowella exclaimed, placing a hand on her hip. “Do not tell me I’ve gone through all the trouble of this, just for you to prefer to lie around smelling of blood and rotten straw!” 

“Why don’t you get yourself a bath first?” he commented with a smile, wincing as he readjusted his position in the chair. “I very much like watching you bathe.”

“When have _you_ seen me bathe before?” she retorted quickly, narrowing her eyes suspiciously.

“At Sawle, of course,” he replied matter-of-factly. “Don’t act all coy; you practically begged me to watch.”

Rowella recalled now, those early days of seducing her sister’s husband away from her. In fact, she recalled the very first time she’d announced her bath in such a way; she had heard him at the door, but then it had been shortly followed by the stifled screams of her sister, who had apparently been the target of Osborne’s ensuing lust. Now he sat at the table, nervous and unsure of himself, quite a different person than she’d ever expected him to be. In fact, he hadn’t so much as touched her since he’d been brought to her home from the flogging. This was not the Osborne she thought she was getting.

“So if I get my bath first, will you then get one as well?” she asked. “There’s no use in me washing up if you’re planning to stay dirty.”

“All right,” he muttered, swallowing. 

Rowella placed the kettle a distance from the tub and fetched a bar of soap and a wash cloth. She placed them on a small table by the head of the tub and then bent down, grasping the bottom of her skirts. Her eyes locked on Osborne’s, she lifted the hem of her dress higher and higher as it revealed her glorious body beneath—a body completely unencumbered by any type of undergarment. Her breasts hung pendulously, the coolness of the house puckering her nipples into little points as he took in the image of her. He felt himself sucking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly as he watched her. Rowella’s eyes stayed on his as she lifted a leg and placed her bare foot on the edge of the tub, affording him a scandalous view of her nether regions.

He could feel himself breathing harder now, could feel his throat drying out, but he did not move a muscle. He bowed his head, peering up at her from this submissive position, his mouth slightly ajar.

“Have you nothing to say?” she asked, reaching back and freeing her hair from the strategically placed pins that held it aloft; it cascaded down her back in golden rivulets. She could hear him sigh. Had she broken Osborne Whitworth completely? Most assuredly, there were some awful aspects about the vicar: his fat, unattractive body, his exasperating arrogance, his phony piousness, his cold cruelty, his hatred of books… but he had some notable positives, one being that he’d been easy to control and manipulate with very little effort. Had he become immune to her charms?


	38. Dirty

CHAPTER 38

“No matter,” Rowella said, and moved her foot the rest of the way into the tub, following with the other foot. She ceased to look at Osborne as she sat down in the large metal tub, placing a foot on the rim. She glanced over at him to see that he was watching the foot intently, but remaining silent and unmoving, his hands folded on the tabletop beneath his bowed head.

It was then that she decided to bring this issue into the open: she did not take the soap or wash cloth down from the table, but moved her hands under the water. Sighing audibly, she closed her eyes as she fondled herself beneath the water as he presumably watched.

Within a few minutes, Osborne noticed Rowella making noises, her eyes shut and mouth open. In fact, some water was sloshing out of the tub with all the commotion she was causing. Was she drowning?  
Osborne stood up with an audible gulp, making his way around the table to the cleared-off area in the center of the house that contained the tub. 

Now Rowella was panting loudly, her mouth wide open and yet clearly curled into a kind of smile—what in the world was going on? He approached the tub, its water not yet clouded by soap, and saw what was happening—Rowella’s hands were caressing her own nether regions.

“Rowella—what in God’s name are you doing?” he blurted.

He reached out now, touching her wet hair. She opened her eyes to peer up at him, and yet continued to pant and arch and squirm about in the tub, her hands still hidden from view. Her behaviors were similar to those he’d encountered at the end of their intimate relations. He’d never seen a woman work herself to a climax, and was quite confused. 

“Can you not surmise?” Rowella exclaimed breathlessly, shutting her eyes tightly, her teeth gritting now.

“It rather appears that you are… pleasuring yourself,” he commented, quite taken aback. “How can a woman—?”

“Just like this,” she replied between pants. “I may need… several more moments….”

With that, she continued her activity, her body arching rhythmically, feet splayed out as they pushed on the inner rim of the bathtub, water sloshing out in time with her bodily thrusts. The arching and panting grew louder until it reached a fever pitch, Rowella’s toes rendered white from scrunching as they shoved on the tub rim with all their might, then sank into the still-clear water of the tub.

Now Rowella was quiet, a satisfied smile on her face, her eyes half-open. She peered up at Osborne. 

“Did you—?” he blurted, unable to finish his statement. 

“Yes,” she said, smiling up at him. “I did.”

He could only gape at her with a silent yet moving mouth. She’d effectively silenced him with her actions. Would this aid in priming his libido, or would it terrify him further? Now she reached for the soap and wash cloth and lathered her body up with bubbles, watching him carefully all the while.

“Would you like to wash me?” she asked, flashing him a look of mock innocence. “I feel quite… dirty.”

“I would argue that you _are_ dirty,” he muttered disapprovingly. “A woman, pleasuring herself, in the bath, no less!”

“How else am I supposed to get my satisfaction?” she countered matter-of-factly, thrilled that he’d entered the fray. "You seem... uninterested thus far."

“What _I_ fail to understand," he began, "is how womanly satisfaction is a pertinent topic—or a topic at all.”

“Is that what you have chosen to believe?” she replied, flashing him a frown. She stood up abruptly in the bath, the bubbles running down her skin as she gave him a sour look. 

“A sexually satisfied woman enjoys intimate relations and is thus a willing participant,” she explained. “I assume you already understood the need for a partner to be willing before you crawl on top of—”

“I beg your pardon,” Osborne interrupted, turning up his nose at her. 

Now Rowella was shaking her head. She took her hair in her hands and wrung it out, and then stepped out of the tub stark naked. Rather than fetch a towel to dry herself off, she strode over to a kitchen chair and pulled it out into the open, sitting her bare bottom upon it.

“What are you doing?” he said, swallowing hard as he turned to her. 

“It is clear to me that more corrective action is needed for you to understand what is appropriate behavior,” she explained.

“And what of _you_ , pleasuring yourself right in front of me like a common harlot! Is that appropriate?”

He stood dumbly by the bathtub, his mouth dry as cotton, in awe at her complete lack of modesty. His anxiety over what she was now saying tempered any arousal that he may have felt.

“I am in the privacy of my own home and thus it is appropriate. Whom have I harmed in doing so? It is in fact _your_ behavior that requires correction.”

“C-correction?” he sputtered. “How do you mean?”

Was she going to call in her smugglers now? Or perhaps Senara? She had successfully enacted vengeance against him in the form of prolonged torture, and there was no doubt that she had the power to do it again.

“I think a firm spanking is in order,” she stated matter-of-factly. “You need to understand that a woman does not exist merely for a man’s whims.”

His eyes nearly bugged out of his head as he gaped at her for the suggestion of such a thing.

“A sp-spanking?”

“Yes,” she said, patting her lap. “Right here. Right now.”

Though a chill ran down his spine, his body was otherwise reacting similarly to how it had reacted in Senara’s dungeon—he was getting excited.

It was then that attempted to rebuff her with a snort of derision, but her face was steely and determined, the corner of her mouth upturned into a little smile of playfulness. She sat very still while awaiting his decision, compelling him to speak.

“You’re not going to call on your smugglers?” he spat. “Or that Senara woman?”

“Of course not,” she said. “If you require correction, _I_ will be the one to administer it henceforth.”

He looked adamant. 

“Pray tell, what gives _you_ the authority to—”

“It is entirely up to you as to whether you stay here or whether you wish to chance it alone,” she said, crossing her legs daintily. “I am not forcing you to stay. It is you who have renounced your own name and endured a flogging to be with me, only to be put off by a mere spanking? I thought you… interested in this sort of activity.”

He looked taken aback by her statement, and stood speechless by the tub. It had been quite obvious in Senara’s dungeon that his excitement had in fact been enhanced by the spanking and subsequent buggery. And Rowella’s proposition made it clear that she wished to take advantage of his deviant interests. 

“It is your decision entirely,” she added, shrugging.

And with that, she stood up and took a book from her bookshelf, thumbing through it as she returned to the chair. She sat down now, her eyebrows raised, as she proceeded to ignore him, her eyes moving back and forth as she began to read her tome.

He waited for her to say something else, anything else, but Rowella had fallen silent, looking fully invested in her book. How would she react if he were to walk to the door? How would she react if he simply strode back to bed, pretending as if she’d never proposed such a thing? Never did he think he’d be presented with a fully naked woman ignoring him as she read a novel, as he stood before her impotently, stymied by his own crippling uncertainty as to her true intentions.

“Are you saying,” he began hesitantly, “that what you observed of me in that dungeon… was to your liking?”

“Yes,” she answered, looking up briefly from her book to smirk at him. “It very much was. And am _I_ correct in assuming it was to your liking as well?”

\--------------------------------------

He lie across her lap feeling both foolish and expectant, his clothing becoming wet from the dampness of her recently-bathed skin. How had she convinced him to make himself so vulnerable before her, while the flogging wounds were still in the process of healing on his back? This was very different than the flogging, however. They were alone in the privacy of a small home and she was even more unclothed than he, and he was not being restrained in any way—in fact, he had been the one to approach her and place his body on her lap.

“Bare-bottomed, I should think,” Rowella said with a smile, hooking the fingers of one hand on Osborne’s baggy breeches and smoothly pulling them down until they slipped completely off of his legs. Rowella could hear his breathing increasing in depth and frequency, and smiled wider. 

“Tell me, first, Vicar, the reason for this spanking,” she said, placing a hand on his already reddened backside, her thigh indicating his tangible interest.

“I—I did not consider a woman’s pleasure,” he muttered, face hot and flustered as he stared down at her bare legs, her bare feet. 

“Right,” she said smartly. “A woman’s pleasure must be addressed, just as a man’s. Would you agree?”

“Yes,” he mumbled, face hot with shame. 

The first smack on his buttocks immediately followed his statement, making him jerk at the unexpectedness firmness of it. He let out a barely perceptible _oomph_ but said nothing more, his erection nestled further in the space between Rowella’s bare thighs. He would not be able to take much more of this, being positioned in such a way over a naked woman’s lap. Had his libido decided to make its return during such salacious activity?

“You must learn your lesson the hard way,” she said, administering another swat. “How many strokes remain? Seven or ten?”

“Ten,” he immediately replied, shutting his eyes tightly and lowering his head, resting his chin on her wet, naked thigh. He was surely panting now, perhaps not as loudly as Rowella had been panting in the tub, but audibly just the same. 

Her hand again made contact with his bare buttocks, sending a ripple of excitement through his loins. Would she be so disappointed if he attempted to stand up and ravage her instead of thrusting purposelessly into her thigh? He attempted to shift his body but was met with resistance, her hand planted firmly on his now burning backside.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she commented. “You’ve only had three so far. You’ve nine more, I should think.”

“Do you not wish to receive my… attentions, properly?” he said, attempting to look back at her but failing. “I shall make a mess of you if I am prohibited from—” 

Her hand came down again upon his posterior, interrupting him mid-sentence so that his last word came out as more of a yelp.

“You are being taught a lesson,” she explained, spanking him twice more in quick succession, hearing him hiss through his teeth in response. “If you should make a mess, the bathtub is right there. Regardless of the outcome here, you are to get a bath. _You_ are certainly as dirty as they come. Is that understood?”

Her hand again made contact with his backside, a stinging smack that sent hot fire up his spine. He was now gritting his teeth by this point, to slow his fast-approaching climax. At the sound of her innuendo-laced orders, he knew it was only a matter of time before he would finish. 

“Yes,” he murmured, his voice almost a whimper. He swallowed loudly, closing his eyes as he replied. “I understand.”

“Yes, _who_?” she countered, delivering two more stinging slaps to his bottom. Now he was trembling, his hips clenching and unclenching rhythmically, his breaths rapid and quavering. 

“Yes… Ma’am,” he said with a gulp, his words coming out as a shaky whimper. 

It was happening now—he was reaching his end and soon they would both need a bath. Rowella could sense this and quickly administered two blistering strokes to his backside as he buried his face in her thigh, muffling his cry of release.

\----------------------

Osborne rolled off of Rowella breathless and exhausted, temporarily forgetting the still-present soreness in his back. He most certainly had nothing to worry about in terms of his libido anymore. Their subsequent baths following his punishment on her lap had clearly been for naught, for they were both exhausted, sweaty, and covered again in their own fluids.

So _this_ was his reward for defending Morwenna and Drake against his mother and for insisting that his mother return John Conan to Morwenna. He was free of both Morwenna and his children, who were certainly being taken care of in his stead, leaving his sole focus to be slaking his ravenous lust with Rowella.

He could not help but glance over at the woman beside him in bed. Rowella lie on top of the sheets, naked and unashamed. And yet, he was in the same state of undress, a sight he’d not allowed any woman in his life to see thus far. 

“What time is it?” he yawned, Rowella’s black curtains of mourning blocking out all light and making it impossible to tell the time of day. Was this how every day would be, a continuum with all the days before and since? He was not opposed to such a thing.

“I believe it’s about midnight now,” she replied. “I suppose we should turn in for the night.”

And with that, she blew out the candle on her nightstand, sliding her body under the blankets with not another word.

“Are you going to just lie there like that all night?” he commented brusquely, flashing her a look of confusion in the darkness.

“Whatever do you mean,” she replied quietly.

“You are naked!” he commented. “Hardly the state to sleep in.”

“Do you find it too cold for your taste?” she replied. “I can stoke the fire if you’d prefer.”

His eyes widened at the thought of her nude silhouette before him, illuminated by the dying orange fire in the hearth. It was unfortunate that he’d just finished, for such a view could compel him to find his end for the third time in a single evening. Such success in intimate relations was unprecedented. 

“Would you?” he answered, his teeth shining white by the light of the fire. 

Rowella said not a word more and rose out of bed, moving smoothly through the house like a cat and quickly fetching several more logs and an andiron. She bent over now between Osborne and the hearth, her backside to him, placing the new logs in the fire and pushing the existing logs to the sides to bring in more air.

“Woman,” he blurted, “are you so insatiable as to present yourself to me in such a manner?”

“So what if I am,” she replied in a deadpan. As she turned around to face him in the dark bed, her curls were illuminated by the low fire in the hearth.

He smiled at her, his body already warming though the fire had barely begun to build. 

“Then I must find a way to keep up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you interested in reading more of this kind of... activity? I do have it written and intend on posting more of the Rowella/Osborne kinkiness unless you all scream out with disgust. I figure since you all got through the smuggler and Senara stuff, this should be very much welcome. Anyway, speak now or forever hold your peace!


	39. Needs

CHAPTER 39

“I want to try something new today,” Rowella stated, dogearing the current page of her book as she placed it on the table next to her. “Are you interested?”

He knew very well what she meant by something new. It certainly wasn’t a new kind of food. Ever since he’d been brought to her home, they subsisted on the blandest, plainest food he’d ever had. Rowella was quite a seductress but not much of a cook. Gone were the days of servants to make his favorite foods; gone were the days of bountiful plates of fruit and little cookies and cakes on trays throughout his house for him to snack on. 

What new sexual act could Rowella possibly want to try? This past week or so, they had fornicated in every corner of Rowella’s modest home. Osborne’s newly slender body meant he could have her sit on his lap while in the bath, their bodies moving as one. They’d nearly broken the kitchen table after he’d thrust into her bent-over form with forceful zeal. He’d become intimately familiar with the patterns on her mismatched rugs, and even now his elbows felt the sting of rug burn from planting his forearms there as Rowella lie under him. Their small bed had been soaked with their fluids, and clothes had since become optional for much of the day. In the small breaks he needed to recover, Rowella would put her feet up on the settee and read her novels as he attempted to catch his breath. As soon as they’d wake up or finish eating a sparse meal, they would recommence their intimate relations. In fact, they’d had little time for much else. The roof continued to leak when it rained, the rugs were full of dirt and dust, and no washing of laundry or dishes had been done. These things didn’t seem to bother her and he was too busy anticipating the next act to think to complain about the unkempt state of the home.

“What does it involve?” Osborne asked her, sitting at the table idly poking at the stale loaf of bread remaining on his plate.

“It involves a new position,” she commented, peering casually down at her nails, “and it involves a certain level of trust.”

“What sort of position?” he asked. “I do believe we’ve quite covered all the usual angles.”

“Do you recall your question in the jail, about the nature of your public humiliation?” she asked him. “Do you remember what you asked me?”

His eyes widened at the realization of what she was saying and he swallowed, feeling a knot in his stomach.

“Are you suggesting what I _think_ you are suggesting?” he asked her then, his face clearly troubled.

“I believe so,” she replied, seeing his distraught expression. “I will make it worth your while. Soon you will be begging for it.”

He made a face of disbelief followed by a nervous chuckle.

“I’m not so sure that I—”

“Trust me,” she said, standing up. Without saying anything further to him, she strode over to her bureau and opened it up, fetching something from inside and returning to Osborne’s side with the item or items held behind her.

“What are you doing?”

“May I tie your hands?”

“What for?” he blurted, abruptly standing up as well as he turned to face her. In her hands she held long strips of cloth.

“For the full effect, of course,” she explained, matter-of-factly. “Utter helplessness. An inability to escape no matter what you do.”

He narrowed his eyes in disbelief at her.

“Why in God’s name would I want to go through that again?”

She smiled knowingly at him.

“Because you liked it.”

\------------------------------------

As he knelt, stark naked, on all fours on Rowella’s bed, his wrists tied to the bedposts, Osborne’s mind began to wander. How had Rowella convinced him to do such a thing? Was she really intent on buggering him? Perhaps she merely wished to see how adventurous he was and this was a test of that. But perhaps it was the real thing. Why _was_ she at Senara’s dungeon that day? Was it some kind of underground line of work she had, serving as a paid witness of tortured men? Or was she there merely because she wanted to watch Senara break him?

That did not matter at the moment. What mattered now was that he was vulnerable and exposed and Rowella held all the power. How could he feel such terror and intrigue simultaneously? If Rowella wished to open her door and invite all of Truro in to see him in such a state, she could. If she wanted to whistle her smugglers into the house to take him away again or to assault him where he was, he could do very little to fight it.

“Face forward,” her voice cut in, snapping him out of his thoughts. He jerked instinctively at the sound but obeyed. 

“You aren’t actually considering… buggering me, are you?” he babbled, staring wide-eyed at the headboard. When she didn’t immediately reply, he attempted to turn his head to look at her and was met with a frown.

“You are making far more of this than you need to,” she countered. 

“This is a depraved, wanton act,” he spat. “We are not libertines, Rowella!”

“I would argue that we are,” she replied. “Now we can embrace our true natures… together.”

Osborne gulped and turned to look forward again, his eyes locked on the headboard as he awaited her next move.

“God in Heaven!” he exclaimed, panicking and squirming about as she then touched him intimately, preparing him for what was to come. He lowered his head and shoulders now, burying his face in the pillow but not attempting to escape. Now was the time to stop her, but the words would not come out. 

He could not be prepared for the feeling of Rowella driving into him, and yelped with shock at the foreign sensation of it, his cry thankfully muffled by the pillow. Rowella withdrew and then forcefully yanked his legs further apart, enhancing the indecency of this act. It was as if he were a female dog in heat, waiting to be mounted. How had he allowed this to happen to him a second time?

There it was again, Rowella filling him from within, the shame of his lewd position filling him as well. He thought about telling her to stop, that he was done, but then with the next thrust came that incredible sensation from within him, as it had before. It made him moan aloud now as his shame began to dissipate, replaced with arousal. 

The ensuing smack on his bottom caused him to cry out with surprise, advancing him ever closer to climax. How could Rowella have any experience in this act? He apparently knew very little about her and the depth of her depravity, a thought that fascinated him to no end. 

He kept his legs spread and his head down as he received her enthusiastic thrusts, his hips now grinding along with hers as she moved in rhythm with him. Had she done this before with another man? Could she have in fact used this very implement on Arthur? 

For a moment, he scowled, filled with utter disgust, but then there was that sensation that pushed all other thoughts away, combined with the feel of Rowella’s smooth, sweat-soaked skin rubbing against the skin of his thighs and bottom. He kept his head down and arse up, eyes shut tightly as he relinquished all control to her, as she brought him to an even more intense end than he’d experienced in Senara’s dungeon.

Afterwards, he lie on the bed on his belly panting loudly, Rowella’s body surprisingly heavy on top of his. He’d reached a type of intimacy with her that he’d not had before. He had allowed himself to be made incredibly vulnerable to her, to grant her entrance to his body, to allow her such a scandalous view of himself. In fact, he found it difficult to look at her, once she’d rolled off of him and now lie beside him in bed. 

Rather than discuss what had just occurred, Rowella remained silent and leaned over to fetch a book. All the while, he untied the restraints around his wrists, finding them surprisingly loose. Osborne saw that Rowella was now largely ignoring him after he’d exposed himself in such a way to her, a thought that irked him greatly.

“Have you nothing to say?” he blurted, eyeing her as she continued to read her book. 

“What about you?” was her reply, as she put her book down for a moment. “Surely you’ve something to say, I would think. I do believe you enjoyed yourself, if the wet spot beneath me is any indication.”

“How is it that you have experience in this regard, and the equipment, for that matter?” he replied. 

“There is much you do not know about me,” she said, smiling naughtily at him. “I must terrify you completely.”

“Am I to assume, then, that you have taken multiple lovers, to have acquired such… experience?”

“That would be correct,” she replied quickly, finally setting the book down on the nightstand nearby. 

“Might you be discontinuing this… behavior, now that I am here?” he asked her carefully.

“Absolutely not,” she replied coolly, to watch him glare angrily at her. Even so, she continued speaking, keeping her composure. “I will keep my multiple lovers, and you are at liberty to as well. Is it not to your liking that we both seek out gratification wherever it can be found?”

This had been the first mention of the nature of their relationship since prior to his public flogging. He’d of course thought about their relationship often, but had not found the exact words to address his questions with Rowella.

“I presumed we would be married,” he muttered, feeling self-conscious at the statement.

“That can be so,” she said, “but as you are well-aware, marriage does not necessarily mean monogamy.”

The words struck him deeply and he visibly winced at her reply. So Rowella had no intention of being faithful to him. Her proposal in the jail had been too good to be true; but then again, she had notably not promised him anything, including a vow of faithfulness. Had it truly all been a ruse to cause him to renounce his name and free her sister from the bonds of marriage?

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she said. “I am direct evidence that you were wholly unfaithful to my sister. Not only were you unfaithful to her within the very walls of your own home, but I have heard from several prostitutes that you frequented their services as well throughout your marriage.”

He cleared his throat before his attempt to justify his behavior.

“I had… _needs_ that my wife was not satisfying,” he replied.

“Well, I can assure you that I have needs that you will not satisfy,” Rowella countered. “Just a simple act of buggery seems to be giving you the vapors.” She sat up in bed now, shrugging. “What does it matter, anyway? You are free to return to the brothel and lavish attention on whomever’s feet you desire. And I am free to have my needs met by whomever I wish.”

Now he was gaping at her, clearly displeased with her lackadaisical attitude about commitment.

“That is unacceptable,” he spat, sitting up in bed now, back ramrod straight. “I will not enter into a marriage with you if you cannot commit yourself to me.”

“Ah, so it’s fine that _you_ seek companionship elsewhere to meet your needs, but your wife cannot? And what of _her_ needs?”

“What needs could you possibly have?!” he growled.

Rowella stepped out of bed now and strode purposefully to the bureau, quickly pulling on a shift.

“What are you doing?” Osborne cried, his voice coming out as a whine. 

“I thought you’d already learned your lesson about a woman’s needs, but it seems you require more correction.”

“What?” he bellowed, aghast. “How dare you claim authority over me to punish me on a whim!”

The last time he'd required correction, it had begun awkwardly enough with his being positioned on her lap, but it had ended very well indeed. What would she attempt to do this time? The fact that he was both angered and aroused by her proposal made his stomach churn. 

“On your hands and knees on the bed,” she demanded, hands planted on her hips. “Now.”

Fear overcame his anger as he stared at her, watching her fetch a riding crop from the bureau.

“What are you going to do with that?” he blurted, staring at the object in her hand. It was an implement for a horse, not for a man.

“Teach you a lesson, of course.”

So no easygoing spanking this time, lying atop her bare lap? The mere slap of her hand against his bottom heating up the skin there? A riding crop would surely sting far worse. This was far more like a punishment than what he'd experienced a week ago.

“You wouldn’t dare,” he countered, eyeing up the implement.

“It is your choice,” Rowella said, shrugging again. “I cannot abide your archaic attitudes about what I as a woman require to be satisfied. If you cannot accept that what you believe is simply not true, then I want nothing to do with you.”

“Surely you jest,” he said, half chuckling, half terrified. “Have we not been enjoying ourselves as of late?”

“Pleasure aside, I cannot be married to a man who does not take my needs into consideration,” she responded, her expression neutral. “I am not my sister and will not accept such foul treatment. It is your choice. Take your punishment, or go.” She leaned against the bureau, crossing her arms. “If I must consider giving up my lovers, then you must consider giving up your sense of entitlement, beginning now.”


	40. The Test

CHAPTER 40

This time Osborne was not tied to the headboard by his wrists, and he kept his thighs together, but the overlying sentiment was the same. He was again giving Rowella all the control and putting himself at a distinct disadvantage at the same time.

“Tell me, Vicar, the reason for this punishment,” she stated, standing somewhere behind him, riding crop in hand.

He was already breathing quite loudly, having not quite recovered from the buggery. There was a definite playful element to these punishments, but Rowella was certainly hiding that element much more effectively this time, appearing much more intent to deliver the punitive aspect of it. 

“I—I did not consider a woman’s needs,” he confessed, his face heating up from needing to be punished twice for the same issue. 

She raised an eyebrow.

“And?”

What else was he to say? Was it so wrong to require complete faithfulness from his wife, when he’d no intention of honoring the vow himself? It was the way of men, and he was, after all, a man.

“I… should not expect faithfulness while myself neglecting that vow.”

Would this punishment change anything? If Rowella still refused to give up her lovers, then this would be a pointless experience for him.

“And how many strokes should you receive?” she asked. “Ten strokes… or fifteen?”

“A clarification, first, if I may ask,” he began, remaining on all fours but turning his head to look back at Rowella. He felt foolish even speaking in such a compromising position.

“What type of clarification?”

“If I am to go through this…correction,” he began haltingly, “is it possible for us to have a relationship of _mutual_ monogamy?”

“That depends,” she began, cocking her head. “Are you holding yourself to the same standards as myself? I have heard that you have accused my own sweet sister of adultery only recently. If you believe _that_ woman capable of adultery, then you will always suspect it of me.”

“It was a mistake,” he replied curtly. “I can explain later,” he said, “when I’m not so….”

His face seemed to redden as he spoke.

“Exposed?” Rowella said with a giggle. “That is fine. If you truly believe you alone are capable of satisfying my needs, then we shall test it before making any official commitments of marriage and such. Does that sound fair?”

“Alright,” he said, gulping loudly, gooseflesh appearing on his skin. What depraved sexual act could she possibly make him do next?

“How many lashes?” she repeated. “Ten, or fifteen?”

“Sixteen,” he said, feeling the familiar pulsation of his loins. Their discussion had given him more time to recover from his previous release, and he was already becoming aroused again.

“Ah,” she said, seemingly impressed with the number. “Well then, we can commence testing right now,” she said. “Stay where you are.”

\---------------------------------

“What did you just do to me?” Osborne blurted as he jerked up his head, his arsehole on fire from whatever Rowella had inserted into it just now. He thought he could impress her with the stamina of facing not ten or fifteen lashes, but sixteen, and now she had added another element of pain and degradation to it!

“Ginger,” she said matter-of-factly. “It will enhance this punishment quite nicely, I should think. Head down.”

“Merciful God!” he yelped as the first stroke was laid across his buttocks, causing him to clench around the burning ginger. “H-how do you… know all this?”

“Do you really want me to answer that question?” she replied. “I should think not.”

The next stroke came before he’d fully prepared himself, and he cried out again more pitifully than he would have preferred.

“Please, Rowella—it burns,” he whimpered, glancing back at her wide-eyed. “I beg you to remove it at once.”

“You’ve fourteen more strokes to go, Vicar,” she stated, “and rather high expectations to live up to. I should think you should stop your whinging if you wish to prove yourself to me.” 

At her direct challenge, he sighed and faced forward again, gritting his teeth as he awaited the next stroke. His breathing had become erratic as he tried with all his might to endure the burning pain in his backside as Rowella then resumed punishing him with the riding crop.

By the sixteenth stroke, he’d fallen completely silent, eyes tightly shut and jaw clenched painfully between his clenched fists. His arousal regarding this activity had not reached climactic levels but had not quite fallen back to baseline, and he did not know how to behave. He heard Rowella step away from him, placing the riding crop back in the bureau, and sighed with relief at the realization that he’d endured the remainder of the punishment without complaint. How had this woman convinced him to be punished so that they could then engage in a mutually faithful relationship? Everything he thought he wanted—freedom, countless lovers, constant control of the situation at hand—was now immaterial. Had Rowella been so clever to manipulate his own desires so they best served her, or did she truly desire a partner just as depraved and insatiable as she?

All that time Osborne had spent on the island being violated by the smugglers had not brought about such a change of heart in him as did this brief time living with Rowella. Certainly that time on the island had quashed his libido, hollowed out his body, and made him aware of his faults, but this time alone with Rowella now had seemingly altered his sexual proclivities! He blinked now as he rolled onto his side, watching his seductress carefully as she lifted up the covers and slid under them, a book already in her hand. He could not believe his own behavior as of late. Not only was he allowing a woman to bugger him and inflict debasing punishments on him, but he was also desiring mutual monogamy!? Could the starvation have possibly racked his brain in some way, or was this his twisted way of expressing love? His face looked pained—he could not say what exactly was inducing this change, but that it was happening and that he was helpless to stop it.

\--------------------------------------------

“How are you, my little one?” Morwenna asked John Conan, snuggling with him on her lap as they ate breakfast. 

“Good, mama,” he replied, flashing her a beautiful little smile. What she now had was heaven. Her son on her lap, legally and permanently with her, and her hardworking loving husband shaping some iron only steps away, the rhythmic tamping of his instrument music to her ears. 

“We are going to be going to Hendrawna Sands today,” she said, smiling at him tiredly. “The beach is beautiful this time of year.”

She peered around the small dark cottage. The small bed belonging to her and Drake sat against a far wall, with John Conan’s bed only steps away from her side of the bed. Many a night now she spent unsleeping but incandescently happy, staring at the side of her son’s face as he slept, his soft baby skin illuminated by candlelight. Sometimes she feared Lady Whitworth would change her mind as soon as she closed her eyes, and when she awoke, her son would again be gone.

These past couple of weeks had been a happy adjustment for Morwenna, preparing and cooking meals for three, sewing new clothing for her son and herself to get them through the upcoming winter months. Even so, she smiled all the time. Her home was smaller now, the entirety of the living space only slightly larger than her chambers at Sawle, but she had never felt more joyful in her life. In three days she and Drake Carne would be wed. No one had approached her, had attempted to claim that her late husband Osborne was still alive, including Osborne himself. Though Dr. Enys knew the truth, he had thankfully remained silent on the matter. 

Drake finished shaping his final tool early today, and the sun was still high in the sky as the family of three strode, picnic basket in hand, to Hendrawna Sands.

“The weather really is quite pleasant today,” Morwenna commented, holding John Conan’s hand tightly as she peered up at the clouds. “Perhaps we will find some shells for John Conan to play with.”

“I brought us another bag to collect ‘em,” he commented, holding up a small satchel. “’Tis a perfect day for a picnic.”

Soon the beach was in view, and they removed their shoes and strode across the warm sands, John Conan toddling along awkwardly in the new terrain.

“Soon, Son, this’ll be your favorite place to come,” Drake said, mussing up the boy’s dark hair. “Your mother an’ I spent many a joyous moment here.”

“We’ll surely have to teach him how to swim when he’s a bit older,” Morwenna commented, gazing out at the sea, her hand shielding her eyes. “Otherwise, I shall never be able to take my eye off him for a moment, even when he is a teenager.”

“We Carnes learnt to swim very young,” he said, “and rest assured, he will be learning in much the same way.”

Morwenna pulled a large square cloth out of her picnic basket. 

“I will set up the picnic here,” she said. “It’s not so windy, but I will have to put stones on the blanket first.”

As Morwenna sought some stones to weigh down the blanket, Drake strode hand-in-hand with John Conan down to the surf. Morwenna smiled at her little boy as he screeched at the feeling of the cold foamy water on his feet. 

“Some day we will have to visit my sister at Nampara,” Drake called out, glancing back at his beloved. “I am sure that John Conan would love to play with his cousins.”

“They are planning to attend the wedding, are they not?” Morwenna replied. 

“Of course,” was the reply. “Even Geoffrey Charles is planning to come.”

“Has there been word from my sister?”

Drake looked back at her and shook his head. 

“You mean, Rowella? Not yet.”

Morwenna sat down on the blanket, pulling food items from the picnic basket. She had invited Rowella to come but had not mentioned whether or not a certain William Osborne Penrose was also invited. What would happen if she saw him there? He had the potential to ruin her wedding, by so much as questioning the legality of her marriage in light of him still being alive, a rather valid point! It was even possible that he might attempt to take John Conan from her. And yet, she could not keep Rowella from her wedding. It was only because of Rowella that her marrying Drake was even possible. If not for her sister’s complicated kidnap and torture plot and subsequent cajoling of her husband to renounce his name forever, this would never have happened. She would still be stuck at Sawle with an arrogant, abusive husband until one of them should die.

Morwenna attempted to focus on something else for the time being. She watched Drake Carne stroll along the beach with John Conan, their dark hair identical in shade, this man acting more like a father to the boy than her husband ever had. Soon they would be wed, their union sanctified by God and their future spread before them like the vast windblown fields of Cornwall. She smiled, allowing herself to hope.


	41. Sermon

CHAPTER 41

“I should like to go to Evening Prayer service,” Rowella suddenly announced, interrupting Osborne’s service of her feet as she languidly pored through a book.

“Tonight?” he said, lifting his head with surprise, having abruptly removed himself from the task at hand. “It’s not even a Sunday.”

“Yes, tonight,” she said, proceeding to place her book on the table behind her. From his position next to her lounging figure on the settee, he sat with her feet in his lap looking utterly confused.

“Do you even _believe_ the Word of God?” he asked her. “The way you always made eyes at me as I delivered my sermon, I cannot imagine you interested in the…. religious subject matter beneath.”

“That is most certainly not true,” she replied, shaking her head. “In fact, the very curate who once served under you delivers sermons that have resulted in stirrings of a most ecstatic nature.”

“Nonsense,” Osborne spat. “His sermons go on forever. I have watched parishioners fall asleep as he speaks. Whereas parishioners traveled miles upon miles to attend my Sunday sermons. I do not recall you sleeping at any of my sermons. Did my sermons not… _stir_ you adequately?”

“Not like your curate’s sermons,” she said. “In fact, I had been attending nearly every evening until I brought you here.” 

“I find this wholly implausible,” he retorted, letting out a haughty laugh. “You, a faithful church-goer? On most days, your sister Morwenna neglected to attend the Daily Offices.”

“Do you not think I need to—if not simply to save my sinful soul?” she asked coquettishly, wiggling her toes at him. He could only gulp in reply.

“I—I suppose it couldn’t hurt,” he mumbled, taken aback by her innate sensuality, the way she could induce any emotion in him with the most subtle of movements.

“Would you care to attend tonight’s service with me?” she offered, holding out a hand and sitting up, moving her feet off of his lap and to the ground. “I assure you that you will feel the very same stirrings that I have had. What you will feel will be transcendent, unlike anything you’ve felt in any church before.”

“Perhaps we should make a wager then, since you are so confident of this… curate’s abilities,” Osborne replied, grinning devilishly. “If I am not… moved, as you say I shall be, then I get to choose what to do with you.”

“You must be a bit more specific than that,” she retorted, laughing. “Perhaps you may want to kill me—who knows?”

“Fine,” he snorted. “For once, _I_ will be the one to redden your backside—and you will then present it to me to have as I wish.”

“Agreed,” she quickly answered.

Osborne instantly felt heat in his face, his loins throbbing at the thought of such debauchery and how quickly Rowella had agreed to it. In only a couple of hours from now, he would be taking her in an entirely new way, one he’d not attempted before. He could hardly contain himself and could feel sweat already trickling from his hairline.

“It’s settled then,” he spat, licking his lips as she smoothed out her dress.

“Do you not wish to hear my conditions, should I succeed?” Rowella asked, her eyebrows raised.

“Ha,” he retorted, rolling his eyes. “You’ve no chance of it. But fine, humor me if you must.”

“If I win, then you must climb…”

He leaned toward her, his eyes widening.

“…up and fix the holes in my roof.”

He made a face of confusion.

“Is that some sort of sexual verbiage?” he asked. “I am not familiar with such a phrase.”

“That’s because it isn’t sexual at all,” was the reply. “Surely you realize how leaky is the roof.” She gestured to the multiple pots on the kitchen floor. “You need only look at all the cookware I’ve had to place all over the house.”

He frowned at her and her anticlimactic request. 

“Really?” he said, looking crestfallen. “ _That_ is what you would have me do? What of the money my mother provided?”

“It is not enough to do the job adequately." She crossed her arms, looking resolute. "Am I to assume, then, that you will not honor your end of the wager, should you lose?”

“I am not afraid of losing," he huffed. "In fact, I know I am going to prevail.”

“Then my request of roof repair should not intimidate you so, and yet it does.”

Now he looked cocky. He held out his hand for her to shake it.

“I agree to your wager. You shall soon realize that the only hole that will be filled in this house tonight as a result of this wager will decidedly _not_ be on the roof.”

She grinned at him and took his hand.

“We shall see about that.”

\-------------------------

“What kind of stupid pants are these?” he said, pulling on the breeches that Rowella had tailored for him. 

“What?” she asked, making a face of confusion. “Do they not fit you?”

“They do, but what is the purpose of these little… hip pockets?” he said, pointing to a small flap that had been created on both of his upper right thighs. “They hold nothing. In fact, you neglected to sew the inside of the pocket to both of them! I can touch my bare leg!”

“It will be what you will have to wear tonight, I’m afraid,” she said. “Your other pants are soiled in various ways, as you are quite aware.”

“What would possess you to attempt to create such pockets, then neglecting to add the very pocket!?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “If you shall win the wager, you can surely consider that while reddening my backside.”

“Oh, I very much intend to,” he said, half-smiling, half-angry, suddenly aware the breeches were tightening. “You won’t be able to sit for days.”

\-----------------

Rowella and Osborne arrived at the Truro church just before Evening Prayer was due to begin. The church was rather empty, with a mere three rows at the front occupied with various tired-looking, older citizens of Truro, leaving the expansive structure echoey and cold. 

It was already quite late in the evening and the diamond-pattern leaded glass windows of the church were not visible. The candelabra at the front of the church and by the pulpit were lit, the only light that illuminated the interior of the church. 

Osborne was very familiar with this building—he’d given sermons here nearly every Sunday until he’d been also granted a second parish. He recalled standing beneath the archway as he’d been wed to Morwenna in the presence of George and Elizabeth Warleggan. He recalled standing at the pulpit, watching Rowella smirk at him through the many services she’d attend with her sister. Now this place held only negative memories for him. He’d never again preach in this place. He was nothing more than another parishioner now, only capable of sitting and listening to men still able to perform his sacred duties, men that were apparently able to rouse some kind of ecstatic stirring in his intended.

Immediately Rowella turned left upon entering the sanctuary, moving to sit in the empty pews at the very back of the church. She slid quietly into a pew on the left, Osborne making a confused face as he also entered the pew.

“Should you not wish to sit up front, for me to best feel these stirrings?” Osborne whispered in a teasing voice, following her into the pew.

“They can be felt just as well from back here,” she commented. She sat down quite daintily, tucking her skirts up under her body as he squirmed around to make himself more comfortable in the hard wooden pew, the strange little pockets irritating the skin of his leg.

“Wait—what if my curate recognizes me?” Osborne hissed at her as he grabbed her shoulder, his eyes wide and concerned.

“Your own wife and mother did not recognize you,” she retorted. 

He sighed, shoulders sinking with relief.

“Right,” he muttered.

\-----------------------

Rowella’s lips remained still throughout the prayers of confession as well as the Psalms, and Osborne could not help but lift an eyebrow at her.

“Have you not learnt any of the prayers by heart, considering how often you claim to attend these services?” he whispered at her, sneering all the while.

“I do not attend services for _these_ parts,” she replied, already prepared to answer. “As I’ve said, the _sermons_ are what—”

“So you say,” he replied, gesturing dismissively. “We shall see about that.”

\-------------------

“Is that not a man sleeping in the front?” Osborne said with a chuckle, as the sermon started off haltingly enough.

“Shh,” was the reply. “You must focus. Close your eyes if you must, to avoid distraction.”

“Close my eyes?” he said, taken aback by her strange recommendation. “It will be quite obvious I am doing so.”

“And yet, do you see your curate halting his sermon and waking the man in front?” she replied. “Perhaps _he_ is already experiencing the stirrings.”

“Ha,” he deadpanned. Rowella was staring at him, apparently expecting him to close his eyes. Letting out a frustrated sigh, he complied, bowing his head so that his closed eyes would not be so obvious.

Just then, he felt Rowella touch his thigh. He smiled to himself, at what he would be doing to her after this service ended. The sermon was one of the last parts of the Evening Prayer and soon he would be bending his naughty goddess over and taking her.

Rowella touched the little pocket on his thigh and smoothly snaked her hand into its space. Within a second, she’d slid her hand right under his drawers and was grasping a part of his anatomy that he’d never had touched in the confines of a church.

Osborne’s eyes shot open and he gaped at her and back up at the pulpit, where the curate was still droning on.

“What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?!” he hissed at her, moving his hand to attempt to pull her arm away. But then she was moving her hands so expertly beneath his breeches, drawing blood to the organ as he sat red-faced and mortified.

“Shh,” she said. “Focus on the sermon, Vicar. Soon you will feel it.”

“I daresay I feel it already,” he said, shifting uncomfortably in the pew. Rowella worked expertly with her hand as he continued peering up nervously at the curate then back at his pants. If this wasn’t fully _resolved_ , he’d have an awkward time leaving the church.

“Rowella, I won’t be able to get up to leave,” he whispered worriedly at her. Waves of pleasure flooded through him and he could hear himself audibly breathing. He bowed his head with embarrassment, feeling his ears redden in kind, and noticed Rowella had removed both of her shoes.

“Merciful Heaven,” he murmured, shutting his eyes temporarily to attempt to regain his composure. All the while Rowella sat ramrod straight next to him in her innocent little bonnet, staring straight ahead with keen interest in the sermon, her left hand busy beneath the shelter of the previous pew. Her resolve was truly unflappable and here he was, panting and struggling to control himself in his very church.

He now could understand how his curate’s sermons set the stage for this sort of act, simply because of how bloody long they ran. Now Osborne could feel his hips rocking against the pew, his nostrils flaring as he breathed in and out in unsteady bursts, his lower lip sore from biting down on it. What a naughty woman Rowella was, covertly bringing him to climax during a church service, no less! If he had been able to win this wager, he would have good reason to redden her bottom!

The fact that he had lost this wager meant that he had to try his hand at roof repair. He swallowed nervously at the thought of it, but was easily distracted again when his arousal began to reach a fever pitch, all while the sermon continued.

Osborne could only open and shut his eyes as his body began to take over, alternating his focus on Rowella’s face, her bare feet, and the unknowing people at the front of the church, those tired old parishioners who once sat through his own sermons. He had to place his hands now on the pew on either side of his gyrating hips as Rowella’s expert work drove him to his messy end. If his former parishioners—if his former curate!—knew what he’d just done in this holy building, he’d be ostracized for all eternity. 

Even upon finishing, the sermon was not yet done. His eyelids heavy, Osborne glanced over at Rowella now to see her grin triumphantly at him. 

\--------------------

“Is it not fortunate that it is raining?” Rowella said with a laugh, as they left the church. “No one will see.”

“Shh!” he quickly spat. “Someone could hear you!”

“I suppose it is also fortunate in other ways, being as you won’t be able to commence fixing the roof until it has fully dried again.”

“So _you_ are claiming victory?” he remarked, lifting up his coat and holding it half-heartedly above their heads as they strode quickly back toward the house. “But it is not the sermon that caused the stirrings, as you said it would.”

“I never said it was the sermons that caused them, just that they occurred during his sermons.”

“You wicked girl,” he retorted playfully. “Well, as… _stirring_ as that was, I am disappointed that I won’t get to punish you for doing such a naughty, naughty thing... and in a church, of all places.”

Suddenly she stopped walking, ignoring the rain that poured on her. Rather, she touched his forearm and looked up at him.

“Do you promise to honor your wager and fix the roof?”

He blinked with irritation at her obsession over such a boring subject in light of what had just happened inside a place of worship.  
“I do,” he said grumpily. “But I’ve absolutely no experience in such a thing.”

“I will hold you to your promise, and in return, I will honor your conditions as well,” she replied with a smile. He narrowed his eyes at her.  
“What are you saying?” 

“I am saying that my bottom is yours tonight.”

The rain hid his face of shock and elation at such news. This certainly would make his eventual roof repair chore much more bearable. 

In spite of the cold December rain pouring down his face and soaking through his clothes, Osborne lowered his coat from its place above both their heads and draped it over Rowella’s shoulders.


	42. Resentment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry it's been so long since I updated! It's soon to be finished!

CHAPTER 42

The next day, Osborne sat atop Rowella’s moss-covered shingle roof with a particularly severe case of vertigo and panic at the thought of tumbling off of the structure onto the cobblestone below. The rickety ladder he’d used to climb up to the roof seemed so far away, and the bucket stuffed with the new wooden shingles were all but impossible to bring over here now. The sky was thick with puffy dark clouds, rendering it impossible to see the sun sinking in the sky. He could feel the sweat dripping from his brow and clutched at the mossy wood with his now soiled fingernails. 

He’d been up here for at least an hour, having removed one damaged shingle and almost losing his balance in the process. 

The terror he felt on this high structure eclipsed his growing irritation at Rowella’s decision to renege on her promise as soon as they entered the door last night, the rhythmic tapping sound of various drips falling into metal and porcelain containers, her turning to him in her church clothing and giving him that doe-eyed look that meant manipulation was nigh.

“Vicar,” she began haltingly, “I was considering the delivery of my end of our wager—”

“Right,” he said, steeling himself for disappointment.

“—and I think it best to delay it until we can both enjoy it without that constant… pitter patter. Frankly, it is already giving me quite a headache. Tomorrow, perhaps, after the roof has been repaired?”

He gave her a sneer of irritation, rolling his eyes as she turned away, but said nothing in reply.

\----------------------------

Never did he think that Rowella would disappoint him in such a way. They’d gone to bed shortly afterwards without speaking, their thoughts clouded with the constant drumming of the rain on Rowella’s roof, which then dripped into the various pots, bowls, and pails and creating a rhythmic tune that made his scowl grow as he lie in the darkness. Tomorrow he was expected to fix the roof to earn his prize. He’d no experience in any physical labor, let alone one involving heights and walking about on such a slippery slope. What if this was his last night alive? Rowella would not refuse him her promise, when she’d expressly agreed upon it only minutes before!

“I think that partaking in intimate relations as we agreed upon would drown out the infernal sound of this damned weather,” he grumbled, slamming his fist into the flimsy mattress. 

“Perhaps it would for you,” she said, “but not for me.”

“Do I not deserve respite from this racket?” he said, turning towards her, his teeth bared. “You swore to me that you would submit—”

“And yet, Vicar, if I submit immediately, then there is no incentive for you to honor my conditions.”

“Rather than referring to me as Vicar, perhaps you ought to remind yourself that _that_ was my occupation—not manual labor!”

“I do recall your agreeing to honor—”

“And you yours!”

“Well,” she began haltingly, “technically you lost, but I agreed to honor your conditions anyhow. Tomorrow will be here soon and with it, a repaired roof… and my backside. Good night.”

With very little sleep from the night before, Osborne gulped, sliding down the roof on his bottom as he made his way back toward the ladder. The world was still spinning and he shut his eyes and lowered his head, attempting to focus on getting off of the godforsaken roof. The cold December air blew through his hair as he sat atop the structure and he shivered. Several townsfolk and a coach passed through the intersection near Rowella’s house, and he found himself cowering against the roof, hoping they couldn’t sense his terror or his total incompetence. 

By the time he’d made it down off of the ladder, Osborne was angry. Had this been some sort of scheme by Rowella to get him killed? He yanked the front door open, causing her to look up from her task at hand, which to his surprise was not a book. In fact, she was sewing some kind of floral dress as she sat on the settee.

“Done already?” Rowella asked, raising her eyebrows.

“How could you charge me with such a task?” he countered, pointing at the door. “I am of noble birth—I’ve not been educated to partake in jobs that risk my very life!”

“But was that not the condition of the wager?” she said, cocking her head.

“What—to kill me?” he blurted. “Most assuredly, that is what this is all about!” 

“Of course I am not trying to kill you,” she replied with a tsk. “Did you not hear the roof leaking just last night?”

“I did,” he countered, “and yet—”

“Now,” she said in a stern tone, “your mother did provide us some funds for the roof. However, as you might have imagined, the funds are not nearly enough to hire someone to partake in such a… challenging job.”

“So you sent me up there, knowing full well how… challenging it was?!” he bellowed now. 

Rowella shrugged.

“We’ve meager funds now and I thought you might try your hand at—”

“Try my hand?” he snarled. “What about you? It appears you are sewing. Can you not sell your wares?”

“I already have a job,” she said slyly. “It pays better than that of a seamstress, and I wager I will have to return to it very soon.”

“What job is that?”

“You would not want to know,” she replied. “Besides,” she said, “I have been sewing this dress for several hours now, hardly the speed that a seamstress would require.”

“Why sew it at all then?” he said. “You could have assisted me on the roof. The roof may leak, but you’ve no shortage of clothing.”

“But nothing suitable enough for a wedding,” she answered, not bothering to look up. 

He gulped, feeling hopeful. Ever since their intense conversation more than a week ago, they hadn’t seriously brought up the logistics of their own impending wedding, or if it would even happen. Apparently Rowella was still testing him.

“Do you mean _our_ wedding?” he asked, eyes perking up, his anger having completely vanished.

She could not help but smile at his handsome face looking so thrilled at the possibility of marrying her. It was apparent that though they had participated in much debauchery these past several days, he was still very much interested in a commitment to her.

“No, silly,” she answered with a smile, watching his smile fade instantly. “My sister’s wedding.”

Now his face twisted into that of confusion. 

“Morwenna is to be married?”

“Yes,” she answered. “She and Drake Carne are to be wed on Sunday at the Methodist church, after the final banns are read.”

“Is that not a mere two days from now?!” he blurted, standing up abruptly. “When were you to tell me this?”

“What concern is it of yours?” she asked, unaffected by his passionate feelings regarding the matter. 

“I—I,” he began, stammering as he attempted to find the words, his anger cooling. He sat back down, feeling foolish. Why should he care what she planned to do with her life? He was now more than satisfied with his own relationship—wasn’t he? “I hadn’t realized so much time had passed, is all,” he muttered. 

Rowella’s attention promptly returned to her task at hand, leaving him to gape at the top of her head.

“And what of _my_ outfit?” he spat. “I’ve nothing suitable nor proper-fitting.”

“Your outfit for _what_?” she said, peering up at him with mock naivete. 

“The wedding, of course.”

“I am not so sure that my sister would want you to be there,” was the reply, as Rowella resumed her sewing. 

“But _you_ are to attend. How would it look to others if you were unaccompanied?”

“Recall that I am a widow,” she said. “My being alone is to be expected. In fact, I would imagine others would think nothing of it. Your presence, on the other hand, would be a potential distraction.”

“Ah, so you do not wish for my presence to be a distraction the day that my wi—that Morwenna remarries?” he snapped back.

“I simply believe it to be an unsound decision,” she said, glancing at her fingernails. “Might that be the end of this discussion now?”

“No,” he said insistently. “I would like to attend this most… auspicious occasion. Besides,” he added, “if my mother has indeed returned my son to Morwenna, it may be my only chance to see him. Would you seek to deny a father such an opportunity?”

“It is not the time nor place for that,” she said. “Surely there will be other opportunities. You shall remain here.”

“You’ve no right to order me about,” he snapped. “In fact, I am surprised with all your enthusiasm of books,” he said, snorting at the pile of tomes next to the settee, “that you have not come across St. Paul in your reading.”

“St. Paul—is that right?” she said, crossing her arms and looking unimpressed. He was unknowingly entering dangerous territory. He pushed the cards aside and raised his eyes in mock piety. 

“‘Wives, submit yourselves to your own husbands,’ St. Paul states. Ephesians. Note that it is decidedly _not_ the opposite way around. Telling me what I can and can’t do. Tricking me into fixing your roof. Refusing me what you’d promised.”

“It is fortunate that we are not married then,” she retorted, standing up, her half-sewn frock in hand. She sighed disappointedly. “Nor shall we ever be, I should think.”

His jaw dropped as he looked up at her now, realizing how stupid it was to try to use religion against this woman. When he’d used that line with Morwenna, she had submitted to him and allowed him to avail himself with her. It had been imprudent for him to even utter such a line; their relationship was nothing like what he had with Morwenna. Religious platitudes would not sway his temptress, the girl with evil in her, perhaps the devil herself. Not only that, but she was clearly dominant in their relationship and he’d generally been fine to relinquish control for the many carnal benefits it provided him.

“Now, why would you say that?” he blurted. “Stop playing these inane games with me—snapping back with such… nonchalant ultimatums.”

He could hear it now, the rain beginning once again. Had he remained on the roof until now, he would have surely slid off of it and fallen to the road below. 

Now Rowella placed her frock on the settee and clasped her hands in front of her, shaking her head with disappointment.

“I had you brought back from the island, hopeful that you’d somehow seen the error of your ways,” she spat. “I’d heard what you did for Drake Carne, and was further convinced, convinced enough to bring you to my very home. But then you go and quote bloody St. Paul and I realize you are still the same pretentious, hypocritical bastard.”

Osborne stood up as well, squaring off with her as he replied in kind.

“And yet, here you are,” he snapped, baring his teeth, “willfully ordering the torture and rape of a man you, in actuality, wish to marry! Not to mention countless acts of sexual depravity, taking multiple lovers, your young husband mysteriously dead. Your slate is certainly unclean.”

“So that is how you truly feel about me,” she said, breathing audibly now, her usually pale face a definite shade of red. The fact that she was showing emotion was truly a bad sign, because she was wont to keep her composure at all times. Immediately Osborne began backpedaling.

“I—I did not say that,” he stammered. “Rather, I _meant_ that—”

“Get out,” she snapped, eyes glistening with tears. “Get out of my house.”

“Wh-what?” he babbled. “You cannot be serious.”

“I am. Get out.” 

She approached him now, still clutching the sewing needle in her hand. He took a step back, in spite of being taller than she was. The cold quiet rage she was expressing was more terrifying than any loud outburst could have been.

“Leave,” she said, eyes icy. “Now.”

“Clearly you are upset,” he said, being further backed up toward the door, a sheepish smile on his face, “and so I shall grant you some time to regain your composure and we can forget about this entire conversa—”

“No,” she said, setting her jaw. Firmly she pointed at the door. “Out.”

“Perhaps I should not have quoted St. Paul,” he said, his sheepish smile remaining. “for as you know, it is Christ who is our true redeemer, for he has forgiven us all our sins.”

She opened the door then, and his foot was now on the threshold.

“Perhaps _he_ will take you in then,” she hissed.

And with that, she shoved him out the door and locked it behind her.

\----------------------------------------------------------

Icy rain battered his back, soaking through his clothing. It was surely near freezing at the moment and he would not last long in this weather. He looked at Rowella’s door, still adorned with a boxwood wreath signifying a recent death.

“Rowella!” he yelled, pounding the door. “Let me in! I will surely perish out here!”

She did not answer him. He waited a minute or so and pounded again.

“My blood will be on your hands!” he cried. “Cursed harlot!”

At that very moment, the door opened, revealing Rowella’s frowning face.

“Now, why did you have to go and say that?” she remarked. She looked at him then, at his soaked hair and drenched clothing as he hugged himself, shivering in the rain.

“I-I’m s-sorry,” he replied. “J-just let me come inside and g-get warm. P-please.”

“It is clear you’ve learned nothing from this experience,” she said, crossing her arms. “Calling me a murderess, sexually depraved, a harlot. My own enemies have never said words so cruel.”

“D-does it r-really affect you, though?” he shot back, teeth chattering. “It is you who have chosen to live your life c-contrary to all established rules for s-society. You fornicated with me in your own s-sister’s home! I c-cannot im-magine that hurling m-mere words at you can b-bother you whatsoever.”

He could see now that tears had streamed down her face. Were these tears of manipulation, such as those she’d chosen to employ when seeking a price to blackmail him with? Or were they real? Might she be showing just a hint of actual vulnerability? He’d never know, if he was left to die out in the cold.

“Let us speak of this inside,” he said, suddenly shoving his way past her into the house.

Now she spun around to face him, her tearful face now twisted in anger.

“This is _my_ home,” she said, wiping the tears from her face. “You’ve no right to be here. I should call on the constable, to take you away once more.”

“Is that all you are capable of doing when confronted?” he retorted, clenching his fists at his sides as he stood before the crackling hearth in the dining area. “Seeking vengeance? Exile? Corporal punishment?”

“And who are _you_ to speak of righteousness?” she shot back from the other side of the table. “My sister never wronged you, and yet you completely overpowered her, giving her no say in any aspect of her life, even going so far as to take her own child from her, whilst violating her at every opportunity and calling it God’s will!”

“Then why the bloody hell did you choose me?” he bellowed. “You, more than most, know my sins. You know what lies in my heart. And yet, you willingly lie abed with me, not to mention your recent proposal of marriage. My being here is all your doing!”

Now Rowella’s tears had returned and they flowed down her cheeks, her anger dissipating.

“You are no less depraved than I, and I you,” she explained. “I thought you and I to be on the same level, to have a connection, an understanding that only we can share.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” he shot back. “To accept that both you and I are inherently wicked?” 

She shrugged helplessly at him, the fight taken out of her.

“So you wish to leave, then,” she muttered, sniffling. “Go on, then. I won’t stop you.”

He glanced at her then and saw that she looked truly distraught. Had he finally gotten through to her after all this time? He sighed loudly, peering at her crying face, almost childlike now. The confident woman who overpowered him and outmaneuvered him at every turn was temporarily missing. He felt an odd sensation, now, compelling him to do something in which he never willingly partook.

Osborne crossed the space between them and wrapped his arms around her, embracing her. She did not fight it.

“You are freezing,” she said, her thin body shivering under his hug. Tears continued to fall as she embraced him in kind. He shut his eyes, then, taking in this moment in which neither one of them had control over the other, one in which they could simply comfort each other.


	43. The Wedding

CHAPTER 43

Osborne sat at the table, a scowl on his face. The semi-rhythmic dripping of rain steadily drove him up the wall with frustration. Never had he felt so impotent, so powerless to fix his situation.

The rain had not stopped for nearly forty hours, since the significant argument he’d had with Rowella two evenings before. The sole damaged shingle he’d been able to tear off before vertigo and terror got the better of him had opened up quite a stream of water spilling into the kitchen, requiring use of a rather large pail that had to be emptied every hour or so. In fact, that had become his new duty, emptying the godforsaken rain pail; Rowella had spent the last day finishing her dress and then relaxing on the settee with a book whilst largely ignoring the mess at hand, the water brimming over the top of the pail and spilling onto her threadbare rugs with naught a batting of an eye from her to be seen. 

Rowella had not guilted him for his failure at honoring the wager, but she had become quite aloof this past day and in fact, had disappeared for several hours just last evening, offering up no explanation as to where she’d gone in spite of his pressing her for details. 

And now Rowella would be attending the bigamous wedding of his wife to her poor blacksmith, leaving him to stew at home and empty the pail several more times during the course of the ceremony.

She’d left only ten minutes before in her new frock, leaving him in the dank, drippy house like an insolent child.

Why should he not be allowed to attend this most auspicious occasion? He had renounced his name and his inheritance and was now William Osborne Penrose. Now that he was of a far lower class in society, this might very well be the last chance he’d have to mingle in relative resplendence, one last hurrah before a lifetime of dumping out the rain pail, the stench of mold permeating his clothing.

And what _of_ his clothing? 

He stood up, moving quickly through the dark house back to the bedroom where Arthur’s hastily tailored clothing hung.

This was patently unfair. If Rowella could simply disappear for several hours with no explanation, he was certainly entitled to observe the final send-off of his former family into a life of destitution.

Rowella had attempted to stitch and launder his breeches and they fit him a good deal better than Arthur’s pants. He slipped on the garments, frowning as he came to realize the shirt he’d have to wear had no ruffles. The waistcoat was slightly stained but would have to do. 

He pulled the door shut behind him and stepped out into the rain, glad he’d decided to wear a hat for the first time in weeks. Rowella had taken their only umbrella and he was left to walk through the pouring rain while trying to avoid stepping in the sizable puddles that had formed all over the cobblestone streets of Truro. Would Rowella be as lackadaisical about his disobeying her wishes as she’d been about him failing to honor the wager? He would soon find out.

\--------------------

Osborne had never been inside the Methodist church that now stood before them, its stone façade bathed in sunlight. It sat on the outskirts of Truro, its door wide open on an unseasonably warm December morning. 

The service must have just begun, for the doors had been shut. He took in a deep breath and opened the door to reveal his former wife and her betrothed standing side by side, their backs to the door. With his interruption, however, they both turned around.

Osborne could see Morwenna’s smile fade to terror, her face turning deathly pale, as she recognized him. Drake Carne’s face turned sour and he reached out a hand to steady his bride at Osborne’s appearance. Now many of the guests turned to look as well. He saw Ross and Demelza Poldark turn their heads to see him, regarding him with not only pity for his drowned-rat appearance but also a great deal of confusion, for they did not recognize him. The Poldarks’ children Jeremy and Clowance only glanced back briefly but then found something more interesting to look at elsewhere. Drake Carne’s brother Sam was unknown to Osborne but he was scowling at the man who had interrupted the service. Geoffrey Charles Poldark and Morwenna’s other two sisters Garlanda and Carenza Chynoweth only briefly paid him heed, for they knew nothing of him. His son John Conan stood beside them with not a glimmer of recognition in his eyes as he looked back at the man who had interrupted the service. Notably, Morwenna’s mother was not present on this day. Had she succumbed to her illness?

Perhaps Rowella was correct in telling him that he should not come. Now, he could see Dwight Enys flashing him an uneasy look from his position beside his wife Caroline. Surely he assumed the worst as to why Osborne Whitworth had made an appearance here at the church on his wife’s wedding day.

All of Morwenna and Drake’s loved ones and friends were accounted for, but where was Rowella?

Osborne remained silent, standing perfectly still at the door as the guests finally began turning back around, and eventually, the minister began to speak once more. The former vicar’s eyes scanned the unfamiliar building and finally spotted Rowella sitting alone in the rear of the church in the very last pew, having moved all the way across to sit mere inches from the stained-glass windows along the outer wall. Now he could see that she was slowly shaking her head at him, her mouth a tight grimace, and he immediately felt gooseflesh prickle down his back and arms. He could almost feel the heat rushing to his backside at the thought of her punishing him for this.

His eyes moved from her steely gaze to see that she was pointing downwards at her pew. Did she imply that he should sit next to her?

Gulping, Osborne winced as he closed the doors behind him and quietly slid into Rowella’s pew, scooting down towards her as she glared at him unblinkingly. He ceased his movement once he was within arms’ reach of her, terrified to move any further towards her lest she castrate him where he sit. 

He could not help but lower his eyes at Rowella’s silent reproach. Had it been worth it, to disrupt Morwenna’s happy day, only to be punished later at Rowella’s hand? 

Very much aware of the pair of eyes boring into the side of his head, Osborne lifted his own eyes to look at his former wife at the front of the church. His former wife wore a beautiful floral gown in a lovely lilac hue, her hair down at her shoulders, dark curls free and unfettered, with not so much as a hat on her head. He could picture her face still drained of all color, her eyes filling with tears at the thought of him being here today, and he felt the unfamiliar sensation of shame washing over him.

Now he could hear the minister resuming the introduction to the service. 

“…marriage is therefore is not by any to be enterprised, nor taken in hand, unadvisedly, lightly, or wantonly, to satisfy men's carnal lusts and appetites, like brute beasts that have no understanding…”

Osborne made a face at this part, for as long as he’d been a vicar, and even at his two weddings, he’d not pondered marriage vows. And yet, these very vows were recited in the Church of England as well, vows that made it clear what marriage was _not_ for. He could still feel Rowella’s eyes burning through him and cringed, feeling a cold chill at the thought of what was to come of this for him, deservedly so. 

“…but reverently, discreetly, advisedly, soberly, and in the fear of God,” the minister continued, “duly considering the causes for which Matrimony was ordained.”

Osborne swallowed now, knowing what was soon approaching in the minister’s recitations, a section of the ceremony that surely Morwenna, Drake Carne, and Rowella were actively dreading. 

The minister continued speaking. “First, It was ordained for the procreation of children, to be brought up in the fear and nurture of the Lord, and to the praise of his holy Name. Secondly, It was ordained for a remedy against sin, and to avoid fornication; that such persons as have not the gift of continency might marry, and keep themselves undefiled members of Christ's body. Thirdly, It was ordained for the mutual society, help, and comfort, that the one ought to have of the other, both in prosperity and adversity, into which holy estate these two persons present come now to be joined.”

The minister then peered about the small audience with the line that Osborne knew Morwenna must be fearing.

“Therefore if any man can show any just cause, why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter forever hold his peace.”

He could see both Morwenna and Drake glance outward from each other, toward the people inside the church. Morwenna looked utterly distraught practically to the point of tears as her eyes fell to the floor, whereas Drake looked determined, locking eyes with Osborne. Dr. Enys lowered his head and seemed to glance back at Osborne with his peripheral vision, turning to mutter something inaudible to his wife Caroline. The church had fallen completely silent. Of the small crowd present today for this wedding, only a select few knew that Morwenna’s very much alive husband was currently sitting in the back of the church and could with one word destroy everything about this day.

Osborne broke his gaze with Drake Carne, lowering his head to peer sidelong at Rowella. He could see her peering at him with uncharacteristic anxiety. If he let this pass, he would be able to say nothing in the future. If he wished to retain his former life to Morwenna, this was his last chance. Moments of silence continued. He let it pass.

“I require and charge you both,” the minister moved on, as Drake clearly let out a sigh, “as ye will answer at the dreadful day of judgement when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, that if either of you know any impediment, why ye may not be lawfully joined together in Matrimony, ye do now confess it. For be ye well assured, that so many as are coupled together otherwise than God's Word doth allow are not joined together by God; neither is their Matrimony lawful.”

Morwenna and Drake looked into each other’s eyes at this point, surely feeling a common relief. Osborne Whitworth was dead; the man who had once held his name had renounced it and was sitting in this very church, having remained silent throughout the minister’s call for any reason that the marriage might be unlawful. In remaining quiet, he had in effect, given them his blessing.

“Drake Carne, wilt thou have this Woman to thy wedded Wife, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony?” the minister asked. “Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”

“I will.”

“Morwenna Whitworth, wilt thou have this Man to thy wedded Husband, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honour, and keep him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?"

“I will.”

The remainder of the marriage ceremony proceeded without issue, and it finally came time for the couple to be proclaimed as married.

“Forasmuch as Drake and Morwenna have consented together in holy Wedlock, and have witnessed the same before God and this company,” the minister announced, “and thereto have given and pledged their troth either to other, and have declared the same by giving and receiving of a Ring, and by joining of hands, I pronounce that they be Man and Wife together, In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

The couple then turned to face the rest of the church and Osborne could see now that Morwenna was beaming with joy. With a radiant smile and eyes twinkling with delight, Morwenna clung to her beloved’s arm, beckoning John Conan to come to her with her free hand, and the little family strode down the center aisle as the Poldarks, Chynoweths, and other guests stood and cheered for them. From their place in the rear of the church, Osborne and Rowella stood up as well, watching the newlyweds leave the church. 

He glanced, then, at Rowella. Would she ever smile at him with such joy, such utter satisfaction? Their intense argument only two days before had led to what seemed to be an increased understanding between them, but would it be enough? Yet he had deliberately acted against her wishes, taking an action she had strongly advised against, for good reason. Rowella had been correct to try to keep him away from this wedding. For all that Morwenna and Drake Carne had done to restore him to health, the least he could have done was to let them have their day of joy with no fear of his destroying it. 

No one had ever beamed at him with utter happiness. Would he ever prompt such joy from another? He knew he had disappointed Rowella, and he would pay for his transgressions, rightfully so. The corner of his mouth twitched as he thought about how the rest of his day would go. Oh, if anyone knew the nature of his relationship with Rowella Chynoweth, they would scarcely believe it!

\--------------------------------

Now Osborne observed the remainder of the guests leaving the church—Demelza Poldark nee Carne, tall and skinny, her fiery red hair as unkempt as ever, striding alongside her husband Ross Poldark and their two children. Tall blond Geoffrey Charles Poldark and Drake’s brother Sam Carne strode behind them, grinning widely as he was soon joined by Morwenna’s other sisters and the Enyses. 

Osborne strode out of the pew with deliberate slowness, followed closely by Rowella, exiting the church to find Morwenna and Drake standing outside arm in arm, laughing as the other guests threw rice at them. The rain had finally stopped and sunshine poured down on the couple and their guests. John Conan was busy having a giggling fit, picking up the rice and attempting to throw it as best he could at his mother and stepfather.

It was then that Osborne caught Morwenna’s eye, and he remained silent as he watched her acknowledge him for a moment and then avert her eyes. He should not have come here today. Clearly he had made Morwenna uncomfortable just by his very presence. Not only that, but Rowella, his own romantic interest, had still not addressed if their future involved marriage. This auspicious occasion made him long for what he hadn’t realized he’d been lacking in all of his relationships thus far—mutual love. 

“Rowella!”

Garlanda’s voice cut into Osborne’s reverie, and now he could see that Drake and Morwenna were finished with the rice throw and were now mingling with the guests. At the moment, the newlyweds were speaking with Ross and Demelza Poldark, leaving Morwenna’s younger sisters to approach their older sister Rowella, preventing her from leaving the area.

“Garlanda!” Rowella replied with a smile. “It is so good to see you!”

“I apologize that Carlenza and I could not be at Arthur’s funeral,” Garlanda replied, looking contrite. 

“It was on such short notice,” was Rowella’s reply. “Not even twelve hours after he’d passed, he was laid to rest. There would have been no time to call a coach. How is Mother faring?”

“She is beginning to regain her strength, though she is too weak to travel.” Now Garlanda peered over at the mystery man at Rowella’s side, a man slightly taller than her sister’s husband had been, and certainly far more handsome. The mystery man stood comfortably taller than her sister, with a full head of strawberry blond hair, a boyishly round face, and the beginnings of a mustache, his expressive blue eyes darting about nervously.

“Who is _this_ , Sister?” Garlanda asked Rowella. 

Morwenna was standing mere feet away and Rowella could see her focus on the conversation from where she was standing. This was the moment Rowella herself had greatly feared. What would Osborne say?


	44. Consequences

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is pretty dang long, because I didn't want to extend the chapter # any longer! Sorry about that! It is indeed the final chapter!
> 
> Please leave me some feedback! I am so happy that many seemed to like this story that by its very nature of the character focus, does not get as many hits as Ross Poldark stories! Thanks again for reading!!!

CHAPTER 44

Her face suddenly hot, Rowella turned to introduce Osborne, but he had already begun to speak.

“William Osborne Penrose,” he said, giving Garlanda a formal bow. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.” 

“Ah,” Garlanda replied, impressed by his stately accent. “And how is it that you have come to know my sister?”

Osborne turned to look at Rowella, who had begun to blush at the line of questioning. 

“After my poor Arthur died, William was such a comfort to me,” Rowella said, smiling at Osborne and peering up at him. “He has helped me to deal with my sorrow.”

Now Osborne could see that Morwenna was smiling from a distance away and had since resumed conversation with the Poldarks. He had survived the initial question of his identity, and at the feel of Rowella’s hand now reaching for his own, he took it in his own, interlacing their fingers.

“I believe it time for us to go,” Rowella said aloud with a relaxed grin. Surely if they did not leave soon, questions would then arise about why he had been late for the service. She squeezed Osborne’s hand. “Would you not agree, William?”

“Certainly,” he said quickly, his eyes darting from Rowella to her sister to the others gathered about outside the church.

“We shall bid you farewell,” Rowella said now with a formal curtsey, to see Morwenna glance up from her conversation and stare at her sister. “We wish you a lifetime of happiness. Congratulations.”

Morwenna quickly excused herself from the Poldarks, moving quickly toward her sister and encompassing her in a tight hug. 

“Thank you, sweet Sister,” she cried, clearly emotional at the outcome of the day. “Thank you… for everything.”

Rowella said nothing in reply, embracing her sister in kind.

As the two sisters broke their hug, Morwenna saw that Osborne was now standing before her awkwardly, his hands clasped in front of him, ears red and head bowed, looking much like a chastised little boy. She could see him take in a breath when she looked at him, and he gave her a subtle nod, his sheepish expression remaining.

“I must thank you as well,” Morwenna then said to him, taking a step toward him. “Please, take good care of my sister.”

He opened his mouth then in surprise, as little John Conan appeared by Morwenna’s skirts. Now that he was William Penrose, he could no longer acknowledge the boy as his own.

“I will,” he said to Morwenna, briefly peering down at the boy as a lump rose in his throat. He then winced, bowing his head respectfully to his former wife and to the boy. “Good-bye, Morwenna. John Conan….”

\--------------------

Rowella strode purposefully down the cobblestone streets of Truro, making it very difficult for Osborne to keep up with her in his still very much soaked clothing. It was quite difficult avoiding the many puddles that had formed in the sunken areas between stones, and he found it rather challenging to keep up with the blonde woman ahead of him.

“Where are we going?” he blurted. “This is not the way home.”

“There is something I must show you,” she said stonily, looking back at him but not slowing her breakneck pace.

His face felt hot at the implication. Whatever could she mean? 

“And where, may I ask, is this—”

“You shall see.”

\-------------------------

Finally Rowella slowed her pace as she approached a large stone building, the local butcher’s shop. Osborne could see her glance around at the relatively abandoned street as she continued past the building to a place behind it. He followed her with increasing uncertainty as she pulled out a set of keys. He blinked several times; she was not a butcher—in fact, she seemed to lack any skill in cooking, let alone properly preparing and cutting the meager amount of gristle-filled meat they’d eaten these past couple of weeks. Quickly she unlocked a back door and moved into the darkness within.

Cool, damp air struck his nostrils as the door was opened before him and he shut his eyes and stepped inside, brought back to another time. The smell was unmistakable—musty, malodorous, the smell of fear—it was surely Senara’s dungeon.

As Rowella shut the door behind them, panic rose in his throat. She swiftly moved to light some candles, and the details of the large empty chamber soon came into view. His nose had been correct—it was indeed Senara’s dungeon. There was the platform in the center, where he had been buggered by Senara and then caned by Rowella and the masked women. There was the chair where Senara had spanked him over her knee. He’d never been so humiliated in his entire life. Was Rowella bringing him here for yet another session? He had been very wrong to come to Morwenna’s wedding, and had not honored the wager to fix the roof, and had said some horribly cruel things to Rowella, but did that justify such a visit? He was filled with dread. Perhaps he deserved this. His offences were piling up against him as of late.

“What are we doing here?” he quickly asked, his voice high-pitched and fearful. “And how is it that you have… access to this place?” he muttered quietly in the dim light, as Rowella quickly scampered from candle to candle, slowly illuminating the entirety of the room.

“I work here,” she replied matter-of-factly. She did not get to see the look of utter bewilderment on his face at her reply, and continued speaking, her back towards him. “After making use of Senara’s services, she offered me a paid position.”

From across the room, Osborne frowned deeply.

“What—I don’t understand. What sort of position?”

“Just what I had done for your… session,” she replied quickly, not looking at him. “Observing. Teasing. Inflicting one last bit of humiliation. Keeping the clients’ identities secret until directed to reveal them. And yet the pay is more than fair. I make do.”

“Ah,” he said, attempting to hide his inner panic over such a revelation. So she caned and teased other men at her job—that would _not_ do. Most likely the men brought here were men of power who could seek revenge, as he once sought to do.

“Is… Senara coming here now?” Osborne continued, gulping loudly, feeling a cold chill at what she apparently had planned for him. As much as he’d grown accustomed to the… unusual ways he and Rowella were intimate, he did not want to be buggered by Senara again, or any of her underlings for that matter.

“No,” was the reply. “It will just be you and me.”

Osborne approached her with trepidation as she finally finished up lighting one of the final candles along the wall. 

“Why are we here?” he blurted, his voice coming across pitchy and nervous. “Why can we not address this at home? I thought I’d never have to see the inside of this place ever again. I have never been so humiliated as I was in this place.”

“It is for you to decide why we are here,” she replied coolly. “Perhaps I merely wanted to show you my place of employment. Perhaps there are other reasons….”

“For _me_ to decide?!” he exclaimed, gaping at her. He scanned the room, now that it was mostly illuminated. Now he could see the implements of punishment hanging on the far wall—a cat ‘o nine tails, a cane, a riding crop, and a horsewhip. He swallowed loudly, his heart thudding in his ears.

“Yes,” Rowella answered. “I will let _you_ decide what you think should be done here, in light of recent events,” Rowella replied, frowning. She moved to the chair that Senara had once sat on, and crossed her arms. “You need only say the word, and we shall leave this place. It’s your decision entirely. Whatever you wish.”

\---------------------

Osborne was taken aback. Rowella had relinquished control of any punishment he surely deserved. He stood awkwardly before her, thinking of his wrongs. Surely she was angry with him for almost ruining her long-suffering sister’s wedding, as the scowl on her face upon his entrance to the church indicated. And yet, he knew very well, this was not his only recent offence. Only two days ago, he had provoked Rowella so much as to cause her to demand he leave her home, and he had not honored his end of the wager while attempting to pressure her to honor her end. He knew then what needed to be done, to clear the air between them, to atone for his many recent transgressions.

His eyes locked on the floor, he began to unbutton his waistcoat, feeling the gooseflesh appear all over his body though he’d not yet disrobed. From his peripheral vision he could see that Rowella was not looking at him.

Osborne allowed his waistcoat to fall to the floor and then began to remove his shirt, pulling it off of his head and again letting the cold, rain-soaked material drop to the ground.

Now he looked at Rowella, and he could see that she was watching him with mild bemusement. Apparently she hadn’t expected him to strip. He quickly looked away.

Before taking off the remainder of his clothing, he strode across to the implements hanging on the far wall. He could feel his ears reddening at the thought of choosing his own implement of punishment. He’d some familiarity with the cat o’ nine tails from his time on the island, with the riding crop from Rowella, and the whip from his mother’s bodyguard. It was the cane, however, that he recalled hurt the very worst, the cane Rowella had used on him not once but twice in quick succession.

Feeling suddenly weak at the knees, Osborne brought the cane back to Rowella and placed it in her lap, his eyes unable to meet hers. Now would be the difficult part. Standing before her yet again, he pulled down his breeches and drawers at the same time, cringing at the sound of the fabric landing on the floor at his feet. He gingerly stepped out of his clothing and stood before Rowella naked except for stockings and shoes, and proceeded grimly to the raised platform in the center of the room, leaving his shoes behind.

Now Rowella had stood up and remained a distance behind him, the cane in hand.

“What is it we shall be doing here?” she inquired, watching him as he stopped in front of the platform, his eyes finally rising to meet hers.

“Is it not apparent? I shall be caned,” he replied, swallowing yet again as his eyes moved to the cane in her hand. Rowella raised an eyebrow.

“A caning then. Are you sure about this? I daresay it will hurt much more than—”

“I am certain,” he replied, face utterly distraught. All the boyish handsomeness of his face had faded into a tired, sad visage.

“How many strokes?”

“As many as it takes.”

The platform was too low for Osborne to lean down onto—he’d have to crawl onto the platform and assume a most degrading position. Steeling his jaw, he lifted a leg and moved onto the platform, remaining on his knees and placing his forearms in the dirt, his chin mere inches from the soil below.

Seconds passed that felt like minutes. He’d first proceeded to stare at the dirt between his arms but when Rowella had not yet begun, he lifted his head and looked back at her as she stood a distance away from the platform.

“Are you not going to get on with it then?” he remarked impatiently, shifting back and forth on his already uncomfortable knees.

“Whatever you say,” she replied, moving closer to him, her face far less confident than it had been for other such sessions.

With that, she raised the cane and prepared to begin, but was met with Osborne’s raised arm.

“Are you not going to ask me why I am being punished?”

Rowella blinked, taken aback by his request. She’d always asked the question before, but hadn’t expected any of this from a man who seemed to have never noticed his own shortcomings and failings—until now.

“And why, pray tell, are you being punished?” she replied, her eyes scanning his naked body, his exposed backside, the only covered flesh his calves and feet. He was not restrained or chained down in any way for this—she could hardly believe her own eyes to realize that he had purposely chosen the most vicious implement and the most degrading position for this punishment!

“For not honoring your wish that I remain at home,” he began, his head bowed, face hidden from view, “and for the… discomfort my actions caused today. For not honoring my end of our wager. And… also, for the cruel, appalling words I uttered against you a mere two evenings ago.”

Rowella could only stare at him in surprise, frozen in place. Had those words truly come from his mouth? She gaped at him, squinting as she attempted to discern his downcast face in the dimness of the chamber.

“Do it,” he blurted, making her jolt from the shock of the sound.

The first stroke was less forceful than the strokes she’d given him in Senara’s dungeon, but it hurt him more than the riding crop ever could. At the contact of the cane against his buttocks, his head shot up and a sharp outtake of breath emerged from his lips. He quickly lowered his head and shoulders back down again.

“Harder.”

Now Rowella was taken aback and simply stood in place, her cane-wielding arm at her side.

“Now!” he cried, making her jerk involuntarily at the unexpectedness of his outburst.

She applied significantly more force to the second stroke, striking him at the juncture between buttocks and thigh, and Osborne responded in kind, arching his back and neck, and squirming about in discomfort as his breaths now came in short pants. Notably he was avoiding crying out. Rowella took several careful steps forward in silence, peering at his face. His eyes were shut tightly, his jaw was firmly clamped shut and she could see that he was gritting his teeth. She noticed that his hands were balled into fists and his muscles were tense with pain. Quite notably, he was not aroused. Had he truly intended on this being an actual punishment and nothing more?

“Harder!” he moaned, his voice wavering as he spoke through his teeth, his eyes still shut tightly.

Rowella hesitated, watching him now with pity. She did not move. A minute passed.

Osborne lifted his head now and peered back at her, his eyes misty.

“Please,” he murmured, swallowing hard. “It’s what I deserve.” Rowella did not return to her previous position, instead gaping at him with confusion and pity. Now his face of sadness turned to anger, and he seethed at her. “Do it!”

“Fine,” she snapped, administering a blistering stroke to his backside. His body thrust forward with great force and his head dropped to the level of the dirt now. At the same time, his dirt-covered arms shot up to cover his head and he began yanking on his own hair. He was the absolute picture of misery. She moved to stand closer to him now, unsure of what to say, what to do.

“Again!” he whimpered, squirming in utter discomfort. He’d completely buried his head in his hands now, obscuring his face completely, and she could see that he was clutching at his hair with white-knuckled force, dirtying his strawberry blond hair and not caring.

“That’s enough,” she asserted, putting the cane on the floor.

“I demand another stroke,” he muttered through clenched teeth.

“No,” she replied more forcefully. “That is quite enough. Did you not say I was to deliver as many strokes as it takes? I have decided that that is what it takes.”

Osborne remained in position, lifting his head and looking back at her, his eyes glassy and lower lip bleeding from his apparently biting it.

“…But three?” he whimpered. “That is an embarrassment, even for me. I should have more.”

“You are supposed to derive at least some sort of _enjoyment_ from these so-called punishments, as am I. It is clear that neither one of us is relishing this.”

He lowered his backside down onto his haunches as he continued speaking to her, his face stricken.

“This punishment is meant to be a _punishment_ , Rowella. It is quite clear I deserve it for my offences as of late. I’ve apparently learned nothing from all that has transpired.”

“The fact that you are saying this now tells me that you _have_ learned something,” she replied, still taken aback by his actions. “You now realize when you’ve done wrong.”

“So that’s it then?” he said, dejected. “A mere three strokes? That can’t possibly be enough.”

Several moments of silence passed as Osborne remained on the platform, shivering and breathing more loudly than usual. He lifted a filthy hand up to wipe his eyes.

“You are correct; it is not enough,” Rowella finally replied. “You’ve one more consequence for your actions as of late.”

He sighed then, having already begun to lift back up onto his knees, but she touched his back and gently pushed him back down.  
“It requires that you turn over so that you are lying on your back.”

“M-my back?” he replied, eyes wide with fear. Even so, he rolled over and lie back on the dirt of the platform. Rowella observed him trembling—but whether from cold or from fear, she could not tell. Finally she was able to see his face. His eyes were red-rimmed and fearful, matching the redness of his nose and recently-bitten bottom lip. There was no haughtiness, no entitlement in his face, only subservience and fear. Smudges of dirt marred his features, and his normally clean hair was all askew, clods of dirt throughout the strands.

“Now, shut your eyes,” she said, still taken aback at the utter dread on his face. Grimacing with misery and terror, he complied, resting his head on the dirt and waiting, his body quaking with either fear or cold. Rowella moved toward him, glad to see that he was keeping his eyes shut.

Osborne’s eyes shot open, his breath erupting in a loud gasp at the new warm, wet sensation in his groin. He peered down at his nether regions wide-eyed to see Rowella’s head there, her curly blonde hair obscuring the view. She was… pleasuring him! All the pain in his backside evaporated at the feelings being elicited in his manhood.

He shut his eyes again, breathing in pants.

“Merciful Heaven!” he moaned, arching his back with pleasure, his hips already engaging. This was very new for him, having a woman pleasure him in such a way, let alone the assertive, dominant Rowella! But why in the world was she doing this?

He blinked quickly now in amazement at how truly wonderful the act felt, how he had to do nothing in return except to sit patiently and enjoy it. His entire life, his rather robust foot fetish required his actively sucking on the toes of another, but this was something else entirely—being able to simply relax and do nothing while being granted such incredible pleasure.

For such a woman to do such an act to him, it was almost inconceivable, and especially following what he presumed would be a purely punitive experience. He wanted to ask Rowella why she was doing this incredible act to him, but he could only manage to moan and pant and squirm about as he was brought rapidly towards climax. 

\-----------------------

Mere minutes after finishing, a newly unsteady Osborne leaned against the wall as he attempted to pull his rain-soaked breeches and drawers back onto his legs. He was finally beginning to catch his breath, the thudding of his heart slowing and calming. Rowella strode around the circumference of the room, blowing out each candle.

“Pray tell, what… actions of mine prompted that second consequence?” he asked her.

“For what you did for my sister,” she began, striding towards him with a smile. “For one, having her son returned to her, and also for keeping silent at the church today. Today could have turned out quite differently.”

“I see,” he replied, considering. He picked up his damp shirt from the floor. “Had you intended for this… visit, then, to be a reward of sorts?”

“I _had_ ,” she began, “but apparently you’d other ideas for it.”

He blushed now, using his hand to wipe the back of his neck. Smiling sheepishly, he pulled his shirt over his head.

“Now, I do appreciate your ability to recognize your wrongdoings and to atone for them,” she added. “I just hadn’t intended on punishing you for them after your impressive restraint today in the church. That alone deserved reward.”

“And what a reward!” he exclaimed. “I shall certainly seek to earn such a reward again.” 

Rowella smiled supportively at him.

“And I shall be glad to reward you.”

Osborne’s eyelids fluttered and he felt his breathing quicken at the very thought of receiving such pleasure again. Not only that, but Rowella would be willing to do such a thing!

Upon redressing in his now absurdly ruined outfit, Osborne and Rowella strolled out of the dungeon and back onto the main market square of Truro. His clothes and hair were noticeably wet, muddy and askew, and her skirts showed some dirt along the bottom hem, but no one would suspect what had just occurred between them in the basement of the butcher’s shop. Not only that, but he could sense that he was walking differently due to the soreness in his backside. And no one but Rowella and him would ever know the reason for the adjustment in his gait. It was a thought that amused him enough to make him smile.

They emerged into the December sunlight, warming their chilled bodies, the shops and markets of Truro spread before them.

“I’ve your mother’s funds in my purse, along with my earnings from last night,” she said, pulling out her purse. “Shall we purchase you some new clothes?”

“Well, certainly for my impending employment,” he replied, making a face of distaste as to how her funds had been acquired. “Your association with that… _society_ may bode ill for you if one of your clients were to recognize you. I must insist that I earn a living for the both of us, if we are to remain—”

“My decision to terminate my employment with Senara is my decision alone, but if you were to find a decent-paying job, I will carefully consider your offer.”

“Thank you,” he curtly replied, giving her a little bow of the head, an uneasy smile on his face.

“Hmm,” she muttered. “Perhaps we should also seek clothing for other occasions as well.”

“Occasions such as what?” he immediately answered, narrowing his eyes. 

“A wedding, perhaps? If you’ll still have me.”

In spite of his shortcomings and recent wrongdoings, Rowella still wanted to marry him. And in spite of what she’d done to him these past couple of months, he still very much wanted to marry her.

At his grasping her meaning, the uneasy half-smile on his face from their previous conversation evolved into a full grin that lit up his entire face. 

“Of course,” he replied, displaying a rare toothy smile, “if you’ll still have me, that is.”

Without replying, Rowella grinned, placing her hands in the crook of his arm as they strolled down the thoroughfare. And just like that, Osborne Whitworth and Rowella Chynoweth appeared much like any other engaged couple striding through Truro on a beautiful Sunday afternoon. 

\---------

FINIS

Please leave me some feedback if you've been following along for this 44-chapter journey! If I've enough interest, I've planned (but haven't yet written) more on the relationship of Rowella and Osborne! So if you liked any part of this story and/or would like to see more, please let me know!  
\--Crystal Rose


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